Roger Zelazny - Donnerjack

“No pipes playing this time,” the cleric said, glancing nervously at the sky where a murder of ravens gliding on the air currents kept pace with them.

“Aye, an’ yon corbies seem a wee bit too fond of us for my comfort.”

“Aye.”

The cottage yard was deserted even of the chickens, pigeons, and cat. The window boxes were empty and the green shutters drawn closed. Leaves and bits of bracken had blown into the tidy yard and the oyster shell path was scored by deep marks from something heavy—perhaps furniture—being dragged across it.

“They’ve moved,” Ayradyss said unnecessarily.

“Soon after we were last here, I would guess,” Heather added. “Did Wolfer Martin D’Ambry fear having John D’Arcy Donnerjack in his backyard, or was there some other reason?”

“I don’t suppose we will ever know,” Ayradyss answered. “I want to look around, see if they might have left a message. Then we’ll go back home. My feet hurt.”

There was no message. Through a window shutter that had blown open they could see the furniture covered with sheets, the rugs rolled up against dust and damp. With the cleric’s help, the crusader pulled the shutter closed again and cobbled a new latch from a boot lace.

“How odd,” Ayradyss said, watching their effort. “Ambry and Lydia treated the place as if it were real—not a virt site.”

“‘Tis real,” the wailing woman said stubbornly.

“You know what I mean,” Ayradyss said. Somewhat clumsily, she seated herself on a bench alongside the mulched-over herb garden. “Perhaps they plan on returning someday. I’ll leave them a note to say that we came to call.”

Her note was a simple thing:

Ambry and Lydia,

We came to call and found that you had moved. I hope that you are well, wherever you have gone. Good luck with the new baby.

She folded it into thirds and tucked it into the heavy wooden storm door. A raven quorked approval—or perhaps merely a comment on the weather, which was growing increasingly blustery.

“Shall we go home now?”

“Aye. I dinna care for how it’s coming on to blow.”

“Or that it might be coming on to evening,” the cleric added.

Their way back up the beach seemed shorter, as traveling back across a familiar route always seems shorter than going over it the first time. The crusader even ventured to whistle as the familiar outcropping beneath which the moon portal manifested came into sight.

“Just a wee bit up the hill,” he encouraged Ayradyss, “an” we’ll be back to the castle.”

She leaned on Heather’s arm as they climbed, trying not to breathe too heavily and cursing herself for overexerting. Within her, the baby amused himself by turning somersaults—a sensation that normally delighted her, but now caused havoc with her ability to concentrate on picking her way up the path.

“Mary Mother of God!” came a shrill voice, rising at the end. “They move!”

Without looking, Ayradyss would never have believed that the thin, terrified voice could come from the throat of the urbane, arrogant cleric. He had fallen to his knees, head bent, hands clasped in prayer, his shaking fingers plucking at the beads around his waist.

“Dinna be a fool, man!” the crusader cried, trying to pull the much larger man to his feet. “They go to the river, not to the sea. If we take care, we can pass around them.”

“I can’t… ‘tis my doom again.”

“Fool! Twill be Lady Ayradyss’s doom if we dinna take care. How can the dead be further doomed?”

At the caoineag’s urging Ayradyss had walked past the two men.

“The crusader is right, Ayra,” Heather said softly. “The three of us have little to lose and there is a route around the sliding stones. What I fear is the shadow near the portal. It seems too dark and too solid—with no sunlight or moonlight but only these clouds…”

“There should be no shadow.” Ayradyss nodded, pressed her hands to her belly in an effort to quiet her son. “We will try the Lady of the Gallery’s charm when we are closer. With how the wind rises, I fear the words will be snatched from its hearing.”

“I am with you, Ayra.”

They climbed then and the land itself seemed to extrude more loose rock along the narrow path they must climb along if they were to avoid the silently sliding monoliths. Ayradyss slipped repeatedly, once turning her ankle painfully, but the wailing woman looped a strong arm around her and half-carried her onward.

Arriving before the rock face that held their portal, they saw that it was indeed guarded. Seen closer, the guardian lost rather than gained in definition. Its claws and fangs swam as if its mass distorted the space near it; its aura was a heat mirage dripping blackness and laughter.

“We are close enough,” Ayradyss said, pulling herself tall.

“The crusader is bringing up the cleric behind. I believe that he had to strike him on the head and blindfold him again.”

“I wish I had more faith in the Lady of the Gallery’s charm.”

The wailing woman’s expression was enigmatic. “I may have discovered another way to force the guardian to retreat—but I would prefer to reserve it as a last resort.”

By common consent, rather than by formula, they clasped hands. Sweet and pure, their voices blended over the words of the charm:

For a brief moment, Ayradyss thought that the Christian charm was working. The guardian drew into itself, becoming opaque, claws and fangs falling into solidity. But even as she thought it was beginning to retreat and her voice was rising into the final triad of the invocation, the guardian began to chuckle, each puff of noisome breath marking a return to its former deadly insubstantiality.

Behind them, Ayradyss could hear the crusader’s labored breathing interspersed with colorful curses and clanking as he dragged both cleric and chain up the slope.

“The alternative you mentioned,” she hinted to the caoineag , “might not this be the time to try it?”

The wailing woman turned her face away, but not before Ayradyss caught a glimpse of the poignant sorrow in her green-grey eyes.

“It may bring danger to you in the future, Ayradyss. Would you still have me use it?”

“If it is the only alternative to remaining here. As you have reminded me, my presence in Virtu is itself a danger to myself and to my baby. Is this a danger of the same order?”

“Not the same, but the charm is potent. It may draw the attention of the Lord of the Lost—or center it more fully if he is already aware of you.”

“Sing!” Ayradyss said, glancing nervously over her shoulder, although she knew that Death could come from any side. “I accept whatever risk this brings.”

“Very well.” The caoineag faced the guardian.

Hearing the initial wordless wail with which she opened her charm the guardian ceased its laughter. Watching for unseen enemies, Ayradyss hardly listened to the charm until she felt the words reach out and pluck at the sleeping places in her mind.

Angel of the Forsaken Hope,

Wielder of the Sword of Wind and Obsidian, Slice the algorithms from our Foe.

“No!” Ayradyss screamed. “Have pity!”

Her terrible eyes streaming tears, the wailing woman continued her chant. Ayradyss felt herself transforming into her otherself from the time of the Genesis Scramble—an otherself for whom she recalled the titles, but not the heady, ruthless power. As her swelling abdomen flattened and her mermaid’s tail formed the unborn baby kicked in protest. Ayradyss screamed again as her wings budded and then tore free in a shower of blood and numbers.