The remnant of the wicker man waved a blackened arm.
A manta tumbled from the night, little lightning bolts popping and snapping around it.
The wicker man waved again.
Toadkiller Dog charged the temple. Most of the men followed. A quick, successful assault would mean shelter from the horror in the sky.
That horror pursued them. The air above the Limper had become too dangerous.
Fire bladders fell and blossomed orange, finishing the baggage and supplies. Safe now, the wicker man forgot the fires. He chained his anger. He returned to his interrupted task
As Toadkiller Dog neared the monastery wall something reached out and flicked him away the way a man flicks a bug. Soldiers tumbled around him.
There would be no shelter from the devils in the sky.
Yet a few men did keep going, their progress unimpeded. Why?
The mantas came down on rippling wings. Toadkiller Dog hurled himself into the air. His jaws closed on dark flesh.
The wicker man murmured while the two shamans recovered something from the smoldering remains of a wagon. He beamed at them, oblivious to the surrounding holocaust.
The thing they brought him was an obsidian serpent, arrow-straight, ten feet long and six inches thick. The detail was astonishingly fine. Its ruby eyes blazed as they reflected the fires. The witch doctors staggered under its weight. One cursed the heat still trapped in it.
The wicker man smiled his terrible smile. He began singing a dark song in a breathless whisper.
The obsidian serpent began to change.
Life flowed through it. It twitched. Wings unfolded, long wings of darkness that cast shadows where no shadows should have been. Red eyes flared like windows suddenly opened on the hottest forges of hell. Glossy talons, like obsidian knives, slashed at the air. A terrible screech ripped from a mouth filled with sharp, dark teeth. The thing’s breath glowed, faded. It began trying to break away, its gaze fixed on the nearest fire.
The wicker man nodded. The shamans released it. The thing flapped shadow wings and plunged into the fire. It wallowed like a hog in mud. The wicker man beamed approval. His lips kept forming words.
That fire faded, consumed.
The thing leaped to another. Then to another.
The wicker man indulged it for several minutes. Then the tenor of his whisper changed. It became demanding, commanding. The thing shrieked a protest. A fiery haze belched from its mouth. Still screaming, it rose into the night, following orders.
The wicker man turned his attention to the Temple of Traveler’s Repose. It was time to see by what sorcery the place kept itself inviolate.
The shamans took hold and carried him toward the temple wall.
XXVI
Bomanz’s knuckles were white. They ached. He had a death grip on some windwhale organ. The monster had dropped low enough that the flash and fire and chaos down below gave him a clear perspective of just how far he was going to fall if he relaxed his grip for an instant. Silent and Darling were close by, watching. One false move and Silent would give him a kick in the butt and a chance to see if he could fly.
It was testing time. The White Rose had orders to stop the old horror here, where there might be help from its victims. This time she had woven him into her plan.
In fact, he had the feeling he was the plan.
She had not explained anything. Maybe she was playing woman of mystery. Or maybe she really did not trust him.
He was in charge-till he did something unacceptable and bit a boot with his butt on his way to doing a swan dive into hell.
Menhirs seldom got any feeling into their speech. But the one that materialized behind his left shoulder managed sorrow as it reported, “He’s shielded himself. Neither fire nor lightning can reach him.”
The surprise had seemed a wan hope, anyway, but a long shot worth trying. “And his followers?”
“Decimated again. The monster is unconquerable, though. He suffers, but pain just makes him angrier.”
“He’s not invincible at all. As you will see if I get close to him.”
Bomanz’s least favorite talking buzzard cackled wildly.
“You’re big-timer, eh? Ha! That thing is gonna squish you like a bug, Seth Chalk.”
Bomanz turned away from the bird. His stomach flopped as he looked down again. The buzzard was determined to get his goat. He was amused by the bird’s optimism. He had learned self-control in a hard school. He had been married for thirty years.
“Isn’t it time you stones made your move?” He tried a disarming smile, a man with nothing on his mind but the issue at hand.
A little scheme had begun to fester in the back of his head. A way to put that snide vulture in his place.
The stone said, “Soon. What will you contribute to the farce?”
Before he could temporize the buzzard shrieked, “What the hell is that?”
Bomanz whirled. That damned bird wasn’t scared of anything, but it was squeaky with fear now.
Vast dark wings spanned the night, masking the moon and stars. Fires animated wise and evil eyes. Another limned huge needle teeth. Those malignant eyes were fixed on those who rode the windwhale.
Silent made frantic warding signs that did no good.
Bomanz did not recognize the thing. It was nothing of the Domination, brought out of the Barrowland. He was an expert on those and believed he knew every rag and feather and bone that had gone into them. Neither was it something of the Lady’s empire or she would have made it her own thing during her heyday. So it had to be loot from one of the cities desolated since the Limper had come out of the empire.
Whatever its provenance, it was dangerous. Bomanz began putting himself into that trance from which it was easiest for him to meet a supernatural challenge.
As he opened himself to the energies of another level of reality, fear struck. “Get on to the next phase!” he shouted at the scarred menhir. “Now! Recall the mantas! Get everybody off this damned thing!”
Fire-edged wings beat the night. The red-eyed thing streaked toward the windwhale.
Bomanz used the strongest warding spell he knew.
The monster tortured the night with its shriek of pain. But it came on, its path deflected only slightly. The windwhale shuddered to its impact.
All across the windwhale’s back talking menhirs began vanishing, leaving baby thunderclaps.
The talking buzzard cursed like a stevedore and flailed at the air. Young mantas screeched in fear. The Torque brothers rushed Bomanz, shouting questions he did not understand. They were going to throw him off.
Darling stopped them with a gesture.
Below, the windwhale’s belly opened and gave birth to a boiling globule of fire. Heat rolled up its flanks. A huge shudder ran its length. Bomanz’s knuckles grew whiter. He wanted to move back but his hands had a will of their own and would not turn loose.
Another explosion tore the windwhale’s belly. The great sky beast dropped a short distance. Upset became panic. “We’re going down!” one of the Torques shouted in his barbaric eastern gabble. “Oh, gods, we’re going down!”
Darling caught Bomanz’s eye and in peremptory sign language ordered, “Do something!” She was not rattled.
Before he could respond the air filled with icy water spraying from organs on the leviathan’s back. Despite the departure of the menhirs the windwhale had begun to lose buoyancy. It was shedding ballast high, hoping that would dampen the fires.
The chill water helped stifle the panic.
Mantas began coming in out of the night, fluttering into the spray. The instant they came to rest their young
