The hand was closer still.
Bryce began to pray aloud fervently, imagining the power of the words cloaking him with holy armor. "Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil..." he shouted, and the banshee flinched. He continued the prayer, each word striking the ghostly creature as if bullets from a sling. He stepped forward, filled with the power of his faith, and the banshee shrank away.
"In thee, O Lord, do I put my trust," Father Bryce said with conviction and power. "Let me never be ashamed; deliver me in thy righteousness." He saw that the banshee was growing smaller, less substantial. He was doing it! His prayers were being answered! He could stop this monster!
The plane took that moment to jerk wildly. Bryce lost his balance and hit the cockpit wall with his shoulder. His concentration dissolved with the shooting pain. Before he could clear his head and resume his prayer, the banshee struck. Floating as it was, the rocking plane was no obstacle. It touched Bryce's arm with its ghostly fingers and the priest screamed. Never had he felt such cold! In that touch was his death, and Bryce's faith crumbled only to be replaced with a numbing fear.
"Back, creature of the night!" a strong voice called out. "Back in the name of Dunad!"
The touch was gone then, but the cold remained. It raged through his arm and shoulder all the way down to his hand, causing it to hang limply at his side. Bryce opened his eyes to see Tolwyn standing between him and the banshee. She held her sword before her, commanding the monster with the authority of her god, Dunad. She did claim to be a paladin, Bryce thought detachedly, a holy knight. Of course she would have some miracles to call upon. Didn't Lancelot have such
I lowers in the stories of the Knights of the Round Table? ()h the cold hurt so bad! But Tolwyn and the others needed him. He had to shake off the effects of the banshee's touch.
"Dunad add power to my sword!" Tolwyn called as ••he swung her blade at the banshee. The power her own faith granted her was limited, however, and the sword passed through the insubstantial form without doing any damage. The banshee screamed then, aiming the full fury of its voice at the paladin. She doubled over, attempting to protect herself from the painful sound. Hut Bryce could see on her face that it hurt her terribly. And the banshee was drifting forward, intent on bringing its death touch to bear on Tolwyn.
"Here, Chris," Mara said, handing him his cross. "I found it. Hurry. I have to reach the controls and I can't do that with the banshee in the way."
Bryce took the holy symbol with his good hand and advanced on the ghost. Already he felt the power returning. He shoved the cross into the specter and shouted loudly. "Begone!" With a terrible wail, the banshee collapsed inward and vanished with a popping sound. Bryce looked down at the cross with amazement. He barely noticed Mara leap past him to grab the controls of the descending plane.
"You handled yourself well, priest," Kurst said from beside him. "If not for you, we would have died like the pilots."
Bryce nodded weakly. He had much to think about. Was his faith, even after all that had happened, dependent on relics and symbols? Could he only manifest it through a metal cross? And, if that were the case, would he really be able to provide the others with the help they needed in the place they were going?
As usual, Bryce had no answers for himself. Doubt began to gnaw at his newfound resolve, and he was suddenly very afraid.
31
Coyote sat by the window, looking out into the compound of the base. On his lap sat the gray cat with the red collar. It was Tal Tu's pet, but right now the youth needed its companionship more than the edeinos did.
"You've been through a lot, huh fella?" Coyote asked the cat. It regarded him with big eyes, then rubbed its head against his hand. "I hope they're all right, cat," he whispered. "I wish we were with them."
Outside, there was suddenly a lot of activity. Coyote glanced around, trying to see what was happening. He notice Major Boot coming toward him from down the corridor.
"Julie," he called, "what's going on?"
"Casualties," she said. She looked dishevelled and sleepless. "Incoming casualties," she repeated. "We were hit really hard up north, and there are too many for Edwards, China Lake, and Fort Irwin to handle."
Coyote pictured the map he had been studying and recalled the three military installations to the north and west. He saw something in the nurse's eyes as she spoke, something that hadn't been there before. It looked like fear. "We're losing, aren't we?" he asked.
She shook her head. "No, we're not losing. But we're not winning either. Look, I've got to go. Casualties ..."
"Can I help?" Coyote asked, gently placing the cat down.
Julie smiled. "If you think you're up to it."
"I helped Father Bryce in Philadelphia," he said
proudly.
"Philadelphia?" Julie asked. "We just got in a new doctor who's from Philadelphia."
"What's his name?"
"Dr. Monroe."
A wide grin spread across the teen's face. "Dr. Monroe! That was Tolwyn's doctor! Maybe he's the same guy. Come on, let's go see him!"
"First let's go help the wounded," she suggested.
Coyote's smile disappeared and he nodded. He followed Major Julie Boot toward the helicopters landing in the compound, wondering why Dr. Monroe had come all the way to California.
32
In the steamy jungle clime of central Borneo, there was a shallow valley that stretched leisurely down into .1 great depression. A canopy of rain forest kept the area hot and moist — perfect growing weather. Thratchen walked beside the master planter, inspecting the field. The trees had been cleared away in a small swath that ran down the side of the depression; it was a place the master planter had judged to be perfect for rainwater drain irrigation, and it also was near enough to the keep to make harvest easy.
"The field looks fine," Thratchen commented. "But what about the crop?"
The master planter of this Orrorshan field was a small man with hard eyes that never seemed to move. He spoke to Thratchen without looking at him, as though he had more important matters to attend to. "The crop is ripe, and I was planning an early harvest of this field anyway. You get a stronger crop with an early harvest."
Thratchen knew the theories of gospog planting, but it wouldn't hurt to let the man babble about his work. It could even gain the misplaced raider from Tharkold an ally in the inevitable struggle. "Why is that, master planter?"
The master planter stepped over to the side of the field where a large group stood waiting. Letting Thratchen's question hang in the air unanswered, he placed his hand on the smooth, cold flesh of the creature before him and petted it gently. The creature was an Other, one of the huge, shambling octopus-like monsters that were particular favorites of the Gaunt Man. Nearly three dozen of the many-tentacled beasts waited beside the field with growing anticipation.
"If you reap early, Thratchen," the master planter finally said, "there will be more ill-formed and weak gospog, but those that survive will be strong and healthy. They will be the best of the lot, and they will thrive."
The Others grew exceedingly restless. The Caretakers, ghoulish creatures assigned to control the Others, were having a hard time keeping the shamblers from charging the field. The master planter smiled. "This will be a wonderful harvest. The Gaunt Man will be pleased."
He sounded a bell and the Others began to shamble forward, their great tentacles writhing and flapping as though they were trying to fly. The Caretakers stood by with their blunderbusses, but there seemed to be little need for the short guns with flaring muzzles. All was progressing smoothly.
Thratchen and the planter watched as a gospog emerged from the ground. It was humanoid in appearance, a fusion of plant and flesh. This particular gospog was slow. It did not even react as an Other drew close. Strong tentacles flared out, catching the gospog. It struggled weakly, but could not break free. The Other 11 ragged the gospog toward it, then under it so that it could be consumed by its gaping m
aw. This event . 11 lowed three sturdy gospog to shamble to safety behind I he Other, where it could not turn to see them. Somewhere a blunderbuss discharged, and the Others set up a low, wailing dirge.
Several strong gospog struggled past the obstacle course of tentacles, with only an occasional one stumbling and falling beneath the inexorable march of the Others. I he master planter smiled, pleased with the reaping. Only the best and strongest would survive; only the toughest and most fully-formed would join the Gaunt Man's army.
Thratchen watched for a time, then turned to the planter. "When it is over, prepare for the next planting."
The planter nodded, then turned back to regard the field, savoring the slow, satiated mewling of the Others as they crawled through the blooming rows. He did not notice as Thratchen spread his metal wings and took to the sky, flying back toward Illmound Keep.
33
Within the dark forest of Rec Pakken, Eddie Paragon held vigil. He sat beside the High Lord of the Living Land, waiting for the darkness device to finish its healing work. Without Baruk Kaah, Paragon was sure he didn't have a chance. The High Lord's favor was all that had spared him back in New York, and it was all that kept the battle-crazed lizardmen from tearing him apart. But except for two brief periods, the High Lord had remained unconscious since trying to spread his reality into Silicon Valley.
The first time he awoke, he called for the ravagon. The winged demon entered the dark forest and Baruk Kaah ordered him to fly to Aysle. "Uthorion promised to assist me," the High Lord said weakly. "Tell him to send the Wild Hunt." The ravagon nodded, accepting the assignment of its own accord and not because Baruk Kaah demanded it. At least that was the attitude the demons seem to portray, as far as Paragon understood it.
The second time the High Lord awoke from his fevered dreams, he called for a gotak. He told his priest to keep the tribes moving, to press the attack in the areas that had succumbed to their reality. Then he lapsed back into his healing sleep, and Paragon sat down to wait.
Paragon must have nodded off himself, for he snapped awake when he heard his name called. "Singer Paragon," Baruk Kaah said weakly. "How do my tribes fare?"
"The war proceeds, High Lord," Paragon explained, remembering the last words the gotaks spoke. "The tribes do well within the stelae bounds where they can work the miracles of Lanala, but they fall back from the Earthers weapons in those places still strong with Earth reality."
The High Lord let out a long breath. "Your reality is strong, singer," he said. "I have never been hurt like that. Never wounded so gravely. But Rec Pakken heals me, and soon I shall rise to lead the tribes to victory."
Baruk Kaah paused, turning his lizard eyes to regard the human sitting beside him. "Why are you still here, singer? Why did you not run when you had the chance? The edeinos would not harm one protected by the Saar."
Eddie Paragon shrugged. It had never occurred to him that he could simply leave the camp. And even if it did, he didn't believe he could reach civilization. He had no skills that would help him in the wild. He was just a rock'n'roll singer — nothing less, but certainly nothing
more.
Black leaves parted and a ravagon entered the sleeping area. It was the silent one, the one Baruk Kaah had dispatched to Aysle some days ago. He acknowledged t lie High Lord and spoke. "It is good to see you improving, High Lord. Lord Uthorion sends his greetings."
"And his assistance?" Baruk Kaah demanded. "Does he send that?"
"The Wild Hunt is on its way," the ravagon said. "It ruts across this continent even now, landing here and there and leaving destruction in its wake."
"Good, good," Baruk Kaah muttered sleepily. "Soon the tide of battle will turn and that dead spot within my realm will be no more." His lizard eyes closed then, and the High Lord fell back into his healing sleep.
Paragon regarded the ravagon, realizing that it wouldn't let him leave like the edeinos might. He had lost his opportunity for freedom. He would just have to be more conscious of other opportunities as they arose. With that thought, he tilted his head back against the black bark of a black tree branch and drifted to sleep.
34
France had changed since the miracle of Avignon. The Church had grown powerful, more influential. Technology was banned, heresies were crimes, and the whole nation had taken a step back toward the Dark Ages. No, it was more than a step. It was a leap, a slide, a great jump into the past that made centuries disappear. It was madness, and Claudine Guerault was caught in its terrifying grip.
She had been running and hiding since the golden arch of light had descended to Earth in Avignon.
Religious fervor raged through the streets, but it was an unhealthy revival as far as Guerault was concerned. Monks called for people to give up the sins of the modern world and go back to simpler times. And, for the most part, they embraced the words and took them to heart. Modern conveniences were considered evil, technology was the tool of the devil. There was talk in the streets of miracles, of the Second Coming, of Armageddon. And beneath it all was a constant murmur that rippled through the countryside. She had heard the prayer-like chant of the coming of the Holy Father of Avignon. She had heard the name of Pope Jean Malraux whispered in alleys, shouted in cathedrals. But unlike her countrymen, the name did not fill her with hope. It filled her with dread. If he represented the ideals of this "revived" religion, then he was not someone she wanted to put her trust in.
Guerault was a reporter, but she couldn't find a way to let the world know what was happening in France. Her colleagues had disappeared, her office closed. All news was the province of the Church now, and monks spread the words of faith and miracles everywhere. And that seemed to be the extent of the news offered to the people, the totality of available information.
If she was found, she would have to proclaim her devotion to the unseen Malraux — and the monks and priests seemed to know if people were sincere. She did not want to face the newly-instituted Inquisition with lies, for she felt no devotion to the returning pope of Avignon. If anything, she felt anger and hatred toward him for the changes he caused.
She had been hiding in basements and sewers, moving from one haven to another as she tried to find a way out of the country. This particular basement had been quiet
when she arrived, but now from somewhere far off she heard noises. She ignored them for a time, content to sit and rest. But eventually her curiosity got the better of her She went in search of the sounds.
Father Herve regarded the man on the rack with a critical eye. "He won't survive another pull," he said to
the monk who stood by his side. "I think now is the time lor the Faith of our Church to take a hand."
The monk, a large and well-muscled man who could not have weighed less than two hundred pounds, paled and backed away as the priest spoke. The priest rolled
up his sleeves and approached the whimpering prisoner.
"Francois," he whispered. "Francois, why do you I resist in this heresy? Your memory is a tool of the devil, lis are the technological horrors you continue to make use of. Admit it and let me drive him out, and you will lie saved for all eternity. The Eternal Father is going to descend to Earthsoon, and when he does, all his followers will be known to him. Those who are not of his flock will sicken and die. Do you not wish to live?"
The man on the rack stirred, rattling his chains like some literary ghost. He whimpered a reply that Herve could not understand.
"Eh? Eh, Francois? You must speak up. Do you accept the word of the Vicar of Avignon as the one true word? Will you give up your will to mine, and let me help you?"
A new light of energy came into Francois' eyes, and the broken man looked up, his tear-streaked face twisted into unfathomable sorrow. "What is it you want of me?" he cried, his voice cracking with the effort. "Why are you doing this? Who are you? Why does my work with machines bother you?"
The priest made no response. He simply regarded the man with contempt and waited for him to continue. Francois sighed. "I
believe whatever you say," he finally shouted. "I will do whatever you say! Stop it, just stop it, won't you?"
"Ah, Francois," Father Herve said, clicking his tongue like he was admonishing a child. "Your words are hollow, as is your belief in the Eternal Father. I must fight the devil within you before you can truly come to accept Pope Jean Malraux, I see that now."
He placed the ornate box that he carried on the table that held the tools of the Inquisitor's trade, opening it reverently. Inside was a small piece of wood, plain and unremarkable looking. But as soon as the box was opened, an aura seemed to rise around the priest and his subject like a cloud. Father Herve began to pray, his French turning to Latin and rattling off his tongue forming a powerful web of energy that could not be dampened. Francois writhed beneath the slinging words and the aura of the powerful relic.
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