The Wanderers

by Paula Brandon

  Riot and rebellion forgotten for the moment, the Faerlonnish citizens broke ranks and fled. The Wanderers appeared unaware. Onward they shuffled, expanding the zone of impossibility as they went, carrying it east through Vitrisi as the afternoon drew toward its close.

  The afternoon was drawing toward its close, and the omnipresent mists of the Wraithlands pressed with increasing weight as the group halted to survey the scene. Not far away, the clustered Wanderers stood flinging stones down into the pit. Their actions were atypical; their vocalization even more so. Across the rock-strewn rise came the sound of low-pitched voices, droning, slow, and monotonous, but speaking in perfect unison. Above the undead hovered a plague-wraith.

  The gooseflesh prickled along Aureste’s arms. He had never heard anything quite like that sound. It was neither loud nor harsh, but somehow intolerable, expressing all that menaced the world as he knew it. Instinctively he clapped his hands to his ears, and found the gesture useless. The voice of the Other was not to be excluded by physical means.

  Looking to his brother, and raising his voice to be heard above the cacophony both external and internal, he asked, “He’s down there?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Alive?”

  “Let us see.” Innesq turned to address his colleagues. “My friends, we must clear the way. Some expenditure of energy is required, but it is a worthwhile investment.”

  Nobody offered an argument. The four arcanists spoke as one and the Wanderers retreated, step by grudging step. Even the plague-wraith was affected. The human effort could not banish It altogether, but sent It rising skyward to observe the scene from loftier heights.

  The way was clear for now, and they advanced to the edge of the pit.

  Aureste squinted down at a motionless figure, half visible amid the mists and shadows. It was a man, stocky and dark-haired, insensible or dead.

  “Grix Orlazzu, have we found you at last?” inquired Ojem Pridisso.

  The man in the hole stirred and groaned.

  Alive.

  “Orlazzu, can you hear us?”

  Another groan.

  “Master Orlazzu, we have come to assist you.” Innesq joined the conversation. “Have you injuries requiring immediate treatment?”

  There was a lengthy pause, followed by a faint reply. “Bruises. Bad wrist.”

  “If we lower a rope, have you the strength to hang on while we pull you up?”

  “No,” came the voice from the pit.

  “Sling,” Aureste suggested at once.

  Two lengths of rope very securely knotted to Aureste’s cloak created a serviceable sling. They lowered it, and the prisoner seated himself. Aureste and Pridisso carefully lifted Orlazzu from the pit and deposited him on the ground, where he sat, battered and visibly shaky.

  Aureste inspected the man they had come so far to find. His first thought was that Grix Orlazzu bore a remarkable resemblance to the automaton they had encountered minutes earlier. Of course, there were differences between the human and the simulacrum, most noticeably present in the bruises and bleeding cuts that marked Orlazzu’s bearded face. For all of that, his wounds appeared superficial, and he was sitting up—a promising sign. Had the rock-flinging Wanderers possessed better aim, he would not have fared so well. Aureste’s eyes flicked from the undead, lingering nearby, to the plague-wraith still hovering above. How long would the arcanists’ force hold them off?

  “Thank you.” Orlazzu pressed experimental fingers to his head. “The fall stunned me; I could do nothing. They’d have finished me, but for you.”

  Aureste inclined his head with a gracious gravity masking satisfaction. This Orlazzu fellow acknowledged his indebtedness. He could not decently withhold his cooperation.

  “We might not have arrived in time,” Innesq observed, “but for the assistance of your automaton, which directed us to this spot.”

  “It said it caused you to fall—was that true?” Vinzille inquired.

  “It was, but I’d like to think that Junior repented.”

  “Well, Master Orlazzu—do you know us, then?” asked Ojem Pridisso, with an air of settling down to business.

  “Some of you, in a sense.” Orlazzu’s eyes traveled from face to face. “Not all, I think.”

  “If you don’t know me by sight, then you’ll surely know my name. I’m Pridisso—Ojem Pridisso of Iron Hill—and I expect you’ve heard of me. Well, here I am, in the flesh, the genuine article. Now, Orlazzu, I won’t deny, you’re a real puzzle to me. We’ve launched sending after sending at you, and they’ve reached you, right enough, and you’ve shut them all out—done it deliberately, too. I hope you won’t trouble to deny it.”

  “I won’t.”

  “What call have you to turn your back when you know your help is needed? There’s not a Taerleezi alive would do the same.”

  “Perhaps it is not quite the time for an inquisition,” Innesq suggested quietly. “Master Orlazzu must recover from his ordeal.”

  “Apart from a few aches, I’m well enough, and beholden to all of you. I’ll answer,” Orlazzu told them. “Here’s how it was. Disappointment, frustration, and disgust drove me from Vitrisi, years ago. Once clear of human society, I found that my art flourished as never before. Therefore I resolved never to return, and never again to involve myself in the concerns of humankind. I’ve not had cause to regret that decision, nor reason to alter it.”

  “Well, you’ve reason to alter it now.” Pridisso’s air of righteousness persisted. “And high time, I say. Only look around you, man! Don’t tell me you’re going to sit there on your backside doing nothing while—”

  Hold your jaw, you unutterable ass, thought Aureste, as he watched the resistance starting to tighten the skin around Orlazzu’s eyes. But he said nothing, for this was a matter among arcanists.

  Evidently Sonnetia Corvestri’s observations matched his own; unlike him, she ventured to intervene.

  “Oh pray do not be so hard upon the poor gentleman, sir!” she cut Pridisso off neatly. Assuming an air of wistful femininity, she laid an entreating hand upon his arm. “He has suffered such a shock. Attacked by his own creation!”

  “I don’t mean to kick a man when he’s down, Widowlady.” Pridisso went red in the face.

  Excellent, Sonnetia. Aureste admired in silence.

  She had quelled Pridisso for the moment, and Innesq took the opportunity to inquire, “You know our purpose, do you not, Master Orlazzu?”

  “I’ve not considered it.” Orlazzu looked almost as uncomfortable as Pridisso. “I take no part in the affairs of men. Humanity can manage quite well without me.”

  “Yes. But you do know.”

  “We can’t do it without you,” Vinzille entered the discussion. “There were enough of us, just barely, when we started off. Since then, we’ve lost two arcanists—one of them my father.”

  “You’d be the Corvestri lad, I take it.”

  Vinzille nodded.

  “You look more like a Steffa. Our minds have brushed, more than once. You’ve a large talent. I’m sorry about your father.”

  “Thank you, sir. But you see, now that he’s gone, along with Master Zovaccio, we’re stuck. There’s not enough of us to cleanse the Source, and we need your help.”

  “Reversal is imminent,” Innesq observed. “This, too, you know.”

  “Perhaps it’s time for the change,” Orlazzu returned. “Perhaps it’s right.”

  Ojem Pridisso drew a deep, indignant breath.

  “This is not an experiment in alternatives,” Innesq pointed out mildly. “Not for us, or for the Sishmindris, or for any other beings prizing their own individuality. All of that will end, perhaps forever.”

  “Then men will move on, and make their home elsewhere.”

  “There will be no elsewhere. The Overmind will overflow the Veiled Isles, expanding across the seas to spread itself throughout the world.”

  “That’s uncertain.”

  “It is quite certain. Once there wa
s room for doubt, but that time is past. We have all noted the signs. You have noted them too—I see it in your face. Perhaps you hoped that we might do what must be done without your assistance, but that is no longer a possibility. We need your help, Master Orlazzu. Do not turn your back.”

  Orlazzu sat silent for a time, and during that time, the Magnifico Aureste’s mind worked. Should the new arcanist prove refractory, then some sort of extra inducement must be offered. Money? Of what use cash to a stubborn hermit of the Wraithlands? Some sort of arcane paraphernalia—extra lozenges, choice powders, mental stimulants, that sort of thing? Or perhaps simple force was the answer. Accomplished though he might be, Master Orlazzu could hardly hope to withstand the combined power of the group’s arcanists. They could threaten to throw him back down into the pit where they had found him, and there leave him to the mercies of the undead.

  There was no need to put this theory to the test.

  Following some moments of reflection, Grix Orlazzu lifted his downcast eyes and surrendered. “I’ll join. I never thought to utter such words, but I will join you. And we’ll scrub the Source until it shines.”

  “Now, that’s the spirit!” Ojem Pridisso nodded vigorous approval. “I’ll say that’s better. So. No sense in losing any more time. Let’s to it.”

  “Here and now?” demanded Aureste, surprised.

  “Why not? The energy in this place is stupendous. I could perform marvels without benefit of enhancement,” Pridisso proclaimed. “I’m ready. What about the rest of you?”

  “I could do it,” Vinzille declared.

  “Well, I couldn’t,” Orlazzu informed them. “My head has been hammered with rocks, and it won’t be ready for major arcane endeavor before I’ve had some sleep.”

  “I too am fatigued, and would be the better for some nourishment followed by a period of rest,” Innesq admitted. “Night is drawing on, the Wanderers congregate about us, and a plague-wraith observes us from above. It is neither the hour nor the place to commence so great an undertaking. I recommend that we begin tomorrow morning.”

  There were murmurs of agreement.

  “So, Orlazzu—you know the lay of the land. Any place around here short on Wanderers, where we can make camp?” asked Pridisso. “We’ve got protection, of course, but no sense putting the strain on, any more than we need to.”

  “I’ve constructed a shelter, not far from here. Underground, very well protected, proof against invasion,” Orlazzu told him. “You’re all welcome to spend the night. It will be cramped and uncomfortable for everyone, but quite safe. In the morning, we’ll be able to set about our work free of intrusion or distraction.”

  “We’ll accept that invitation, with thanks.” Pridisso nodded in satisfaction. “You ready to move?” He extended a hand.

  Gripping the proffered member, Grix Orlazzu hauled himself to his feet and stood swaying a little. His face was streaked with congealing blood, but his eyes were clear and focused.

  “Come. This way.” He set off, and the others followed. The span of smooth pathway easing the passage of Innesq Belandor’s chair similarly eased Orlazzu’s limping progress. His glance jumped from the smooth way underfoot to the wheeled conveyance, and his brows rose with the appreciation of a connoisseur.

  Aureste cared nothing about the arcane path; it had lost its novelty long ago. His uneasy attention fixed on the Wanderers dragging along in their wake and the persistent plague-wraith hovering overhead. Unlike the pathway, the visible manifestations of the Overmind’s will never lost their interest. His involvement in the rescue of Grix Orlazzu had diverted and shielded his mind for a time, but now he felt the pressure once again, more intense and demanding than ever.

  Orlazzu led them on, winding an assured way among featureless hillocks and gullies, advancing quite swiftly, despite his slight limp. Gradually the shambling Wanderers fell farther behind. The shadows of approaching evening deepened as they went, and soon the undead were lost to view. But the plague-wraith floated on overhead, Its form something like a vast, double-headed fish.

  The light was fading, the nocturnal shadows encroaching, and the will of the Overmind pressing, when they came upon a broad, thick, circular slab of stone that lay half sunk in the ground. Dropping to his knees, Grix Orlazzu ran his fingers along the stone’s edge. The fingers paused, performed some invisible operation, and the great slab swung silently upright.

  Aureste stepped near to behold a vertical shaft with iron rungs set into its stone walls.

  “How far to the bottom?” he inquired of Orlazzu. “Will the sling that brought you out of the pit do to carry my brother down?”

  “No. Deeper excavation. Need more rope,” came the succinct reply.

  Two additional lengths of rope extended the sling as required.

  Orlazzu descended first, to clear the way, furnish some light, and stand ready to ease Innesq’s descent. Down the rungs he climbed, confident and agile despite his bruises. He disappeared from view and, moments later, his voice ascended from the depths. “Ready.”

  Innesq was transferred to the sling. Aureste and Pridisso were to manage the conveyance jointly, but Aureste hesitated. He did not relish the prospect of lowering his brother into a deep hole of unknown nature and content, presently tenanted by a stranger arcanist of unknown temperament and character. He did not, in fact, wish to let Innesq out of his sight.

  Innesq met his gaze, and smiled; the slightest, almost invisible hint of a smile, more of the eyes than the lips, that somehow conveyed both amusement and reassurance.

  Aureste suppressed a sigh. Innesq would do as he wished; he always did. He nodded to Pridisso, and the two of them played out rope in unison, smoothly lowering the sling into the pit.

  It seemed to take a very long time. The excavation was impressively deep. At last, however, the sling went weightless, and Innesq’s voice rose to their ears.

  “Arrived. Safe.”

  Aureste collapsed the wheeled chair and sent it down on a rope. Thereafter, the remaining six of them tossed their various bundled belongings down, then descended the ladder, one after another. Aureste was last to go, and not reluctant, for the deepening shadows of night did not hide the approach of two Wanderers; one male, the other a being of indeterminate gender. No doubt more would follow. As he climbed down into the hole, the great stone slab swung noiselessly back into place above him, propelled by unknown agency; whether arcane or mechanical, he could not judge.

  He reached the bottom and glanced about him, noting at once that his brother’s wheeled chair had already been unfolded and that Innesq again occupied it. He and the others had reached an underground chamber of surprising size. It was circular in shape and almost as spacious as a modest cabin, with walls of smooth stone and mortar. The light was soft, but strong enough to read by; its origin unknown. The air was fresh and clean, with the barely perceptible suggestion of a breeze or moving current; but no window, air shaft, or opening of any sort was visible. The atmosphere was comfortably warm, but there was no hearth or stove to be seen.

  Yes, this Grix Orlazzu was an accomplished adept, and no mistake. He must have deployed considerable arcane power in the creation of such a refuge; assuming, of course, that he had actually done it himself.

  The furnishings were sparse and spare: a pallet, a plain little table, a three-legged stool, a shelf supporting a few simple items, a washbasin and pitcher, a couple of hooks set into the stone walls, a couple of baskets. And one more object of note—a curious, low, flat block, composed of some unidentifiable solid substance, set atop a trio of heavy, rectangular iron bars that raised it a couple of fingerwidths above the stone floor. Atop the block sat a kettle, a skillet, and a pot. Evidently the thing functioned as some sort of a cooking surface, but its principle of operation remained obscure. Conspicuously absent were the collections of books, folios, instruments, ingredients, mysterious artifacts, and bits of exotic paraphernalia so often accumulated and prized by arcanists. The place bore no resemblance to Innesq’
s workroom, which Aureste had visited often enough prior to its destruction.

  Despite the asceticism of their surroundings, the arcanists of the group were clearly impressed, their eyes bright with interest and admiration.

  “The transdimensional renewal of the air—it is beautifully done,” observed Innesq.

  “I’ve never seen light called forth in this way,” said Vinzille. “How do you keep it from flickering, Master Orlazzu? Is it something new?”

  “The spatial compression/expansion—really, not bad. Quite good,” conceded Pridisso, as if conferring a gift.

  “In this place, it’s almost shamefully easy,” Orlazzu returned.

  As if in confirmation, a low, distant rumble vibrated beneath them. The chamber in which they stood was deep underground; the rumble, deeper yet. Then Aureste felt a mild but unmistakable tremor rock the stone floor beneath his feet, and the trembling communicated itself along his limbs and through his body to his heart and mind, which fluttered in amazed exhilaration. Surely the quivering of the world around him threatened impending disaster. Why then did he long to run and leap like a boy?

  But Sonnetia must be terrified and in need of his help. He turned to her and saw her smiling, cheeks flushed, eyes aglow, lips parted as if eager to drink the finest wine in the world. She felt his gaze on her, turned to meet it, and once more he felt as if they breathed as one. He did not even need to touch her;

  their minds and imaginations touched. He was fifty years old, and had never felt more alive.

  “It’s the Source,” Orlazzu informed them. “It’s below us now. Its circuit carries it under this place, and I think that it must approach nearer the surface here than anywhere else that its travels take it. It’s my belief that we stand as close to the Source itself as men have ever stood.”

  “I have never experienced the like,” Innesq mused, as if in a dream. “Almost I feel as if I could rise from this chair.”