Chapter Thirteen:
THE PLAIN OF FEAR

 

"Yo! Croaker!" The Lieutenant had come outside.

"What?"

"Let Tracker cover you." I had only minutes left in my watch. "Darling wants you."

I glanced at Tracker. He shrugged. "Go ahead." He assumed a stance facing westward. I swear, it was like he turned the vigilance on. As though on the instant he became the ultimate sentinel.

Even Toadkiller Dog opened an eye and went to watching.

I brushed the dog's scalp with my fingers as I left, what I thought a friendly gesture. He growled. "Be like that," I said, and joined the Lieutenant.

He seemed disturbed. Generally, he is a cold customer. "What is it?"

"She's got one of her wild hairs."

Oh, boy. "What?"

"Rust."

"Oh yeah! Brilliant! Get it all over with fast! I thought that was just talk. I trust you tried to argue her out of it?"

You would think a man would grow accustomed to stench after having lived with it for years. But as we descended into the Hole my nose wrinkled and tightened. You just can't keep a bunch of people stuffed in a pit without ventilation. We have precious little.

"I tried. She says, 'Load the wagon. Let me worry about the mule being blind.'"

"She's right most of the time."

"She's a damned military genius. But that don't mean she can pull off any cockamamie scheme she dreams up. Some dreams are nightmares. Hell, Croaker. The Limper is out there."

Which is where we started when we reached the conference room. Silent and I bore the brunt because we are Darling's favorites. Seldom do I see such unanimity among my brethren. Even Goblin and One-Eye spoke with a single voice, and those two will fight over whether it is night or day with the sun at high noon.

Darling prowled like a caged beast. She had doubts. They nagged her.

"Two Taken in Rust," I argued. "That's what Corder said. One of them our oldest and nastiest enemy."

"Break them and we will shatter their entire plan of campaign," she countered.

"Break them? Girl, you're talking about the Limper. I proved he is invincible before."

"No. You proved that he will survive unless you are thorough. You might have burned him."

Yeah. Or cut him into pieces and fed him to the fish, or given him a swim in a vat of acid or a dust bath in quicklime. But those things take time. We had the Lady herself coming down on us. We barely got away as it was.

"Assuming we can get there undetected-which I do not believe for a moment-and manage total surprise, how long before all the Taken get on us?" I signed vigorously, more angry than frightened. I never refuse Darling, ever. But this time I was ready.

Her eyes flashed. For the first time ever I saw her battle her temper. She signed, "If you will not accept orders you should not be here. I am not the Lady. I do not sacrifice pawns for small gain. I agree, there is great risk in this operation. But far less than you argue. With potential impact far greater than you suppose."

"Convince me."

"That I cannot do. If you are captured, you must not know."

I was primed. "You just telling me that is enough for the Taken to get on a trail." Maybe I was more scared than I could admit. Or maybe it was just an all-time case of the contraries.

"No," she signed. There was something more, but she held it back.

Silent dropped a hand on my shoulder. He had given up. The Lieutenant joined him. "You're overstepping yourself, Croaker."

Darling repeated, "If you will not accept orders. Croaker, leave."

She meant it. Really! I stood with mouth open, stunned.

"All right!" I stamped out. I went to my quarters, shuffled those obstinate old papers and, of course, found not a damned thing new.

They left me alone for a while. Then Elmo came. He did not announce himself. I just glanced up and found him leaning against the door frame. By then I was half ashamed of my performance. "Yeah?"

"Mail call," he said, and tossed me another of those oilskin packets.

I snapped it out of the air. He departed without explaining its appearance. I placed it on my worktable, wondered. Who? I knew no one in Oar.

Was it some sort of trick?

The Lady is patient and clever. I would not put past her some grand maneuver using me.

I guess I must have thought about it an hour before, reluctantly, I opened the packet.

Chapter Fourteen:
THE STORY OF BOMANZ

 

Croaker:

Bomanz and Tokar stood in one corner of the shop. "What do you think?" Bomanz asked. "Bring a good price?"

Tokar stared at the piece de resistance of Bomanz's new TelleKurre collection, a skeleton in perfectly restored armor. "It's marvelous, Bo. How did you do it?"

"Wired the joints together. See the forehead jewel? I'm not up on Domination heraldry, but wouldn't a ruby mean somebody important?"

"A king. That would be the skull of King Broke."

"His bones, too. And armor."

"You're rich, Bo. I'll just take a commission on this one. A wedding present to the family. You took me serious when I said come up with something good."

"The Monitor confiscated the best. We had Shapeshifter's armor."

Tokar had brought helpers this trip, a pair of hulking gorilla teamsters. They were carrying antiques to wagons outside. Their back-and-forth made Bomanz nervous.

"Really? Damn! I'd give my left arm for that."

Bomanz spread his hands apologetically. "What could I do? Besand keeps me on a short leash. Anyway, you know my policy. I'm stretching it to deal with a future daughter-in-law's brother."

"How's that?"

Stuck my foot in it now, Bomanz thought. He ploughed ahead. "Besand has heard you're a Resurrectionist. Stance and I are getting a hard time."

"Now that's sick. I'm sorry, Bo. Resurrectionist! I shot my mouth off once, years ago, and said even the Dominator would be better for Oar than our clown Mayor. One stupid remark! They never let you forget. It's not enough that they hounded my father into an early grave. Now they have to torment me and my friends."

Bomanz had no idea what Tokar was talking about. He would have to ask Stance. But it reassured him; which was all he really wanted.

"Tokar, keep the profits from this lot. For Stance and Glory. As my wedding present. Have they set a date?"

"Nothing definite. After his sabbatical and thesis. Come winter, I guess. Thinking about coming down?"

"Thinking about moving back to Oar. I don't have enough fight left to break in a new Monitor."

Tokar chuckled. "Probably won't be much call for Domination artifacts after this summer anyway. I'll see if I can find you a place. You do work like the king here, you won't have trouble making a living."

"You really like it? I was thinking about doing his horse, too." Bomanz felt a surge of pride in his craftsmanship.

"Horse? Really? They buried his horse with him?"

"Armor and all. I don't know who put the TelleKurre in the ground, but they didn't loot. We've got a whole box of coins and jewelry and badges."

"Domination coinage? That's hotter than hot. Most of it was melted down. A Domination coin in good shape can bring fifty times its metal value."

"Leave King Whosis here. I'll put his horse together for him. Pick him up next trip."

"I won't be long, either. I'll unload and zip right back. Where's Stance, anyway? I wanted to say hello." Tokar waved one of those leather wallets.

"Glory?"

"Glory. She ought to write romances. Going to break me, buying paper."

"He's out to the dig. Let's go. Jasmine! I'm taking Tokar out to the dig."

During the walk Bomanz kept glancing over his shoulder. The comet was now so bright it could be seen, barely, by day. "Going to be one hell of a sight when it peaks out," he predicted.

"I expect so." Tokar's smile made Bomanz nervous. I'm imagining, he told himself.

Stancil used his back to open the shop door. He dumped a load of weapons. "We're getting mined out, Pop. Pretty much all common junk last night."

Bomanz twisted a strand of copper wire, wriggled out of the framework supporting the horse skeleton. "Then let Men fu take over. Not much more room here anyway."

The shop was almost impassable. Bomanz would not have to dig for years, were that his inclination.

"Looking good," Stance said of the horse, tarrying before going for another armful from a borrowed cart. "You'll have to show me how to get the king on top so I can put them together when I go back."

"I may do it myself."

"Thought you'd decided to stay."

"Maybe. I don't know. When are we going to start that thesis?"

"I'm working on it. Making notes. Once I get organized I can write it up like that." He snapped his fingers. "Don't worry. I've got plenty of time." He went outside again.

Jasmine brought tea. "I thought I heard Stance."

Bomanz jerked his head. "Outside."

She looked for a place to set teapot and cups. "You're going to have to get this mess organized."

"I keep telling myself that."

Stancil returned. "Enough odds and ends here to make a suit of armor. Long as nobody tries to wear it."

"Tea?" his mother asked.

"Sure. Pop, I came past headquarters. That new Monitor is here."

"Already?"

"You're going to love him. He brought a coach and three wagons filled with clothing for his mistress. And a platoon of servants."

"What? Ha! He'll die when Besand shows him his quarters." The Monitor lived in a cell more fit for a monk than for the most powerful man in the province.

"He deserves it."

"You know him?"

"By reputation. Polite people call him the Jackal. If I'd known it was him… What could I have done? Nothing. He's lucky his family got him sent here. Somebody would have killed him if he'd stayed around the city."

"Not popular, eh?"

"You'll find out if you stay. Come back, Pop."

"I've got a job to do, Stance."

"How much longer?"

"A couple of days. Or forever. You know. I've got to get that name."

"Pop, we could try now. While things are confused."

"No experiments, Stance. I want it cold. I won't take chances with the Ten."

Stancil wanted to argue but sipped tea instead. He went out to the cart again. When he returned, he said, "Tokar should be turned around by now. Maybe he'll bring more than two wagons."

Bomanz chuckled. "Maybe he'll bring more than wagons, you mean? Like maybe a sister?"

"I was thinking that, yes."

"How are you going to get a thesis written?"

"There's always a spare moment."

Bomanz ran a dust cloth over the jewel in the brow of his dead king's horse. "Enough for now, Dobbin. Going out to the dig."

"Swing by and check the excitement," Stancil suggested.

"I wouldn't miss it."

Besand came to the dig that afternoon. He caught Bomanz napping. "What is this?" he demanded. "Sleeping on the job?"

Bomanz sat up. "You know me. Just getting out of the house. I hear the new man showed up.'

Besand spat. "Don't mention him."

"Bad?"

"Worse than I expected. Mark me, Bo. Today writes the end of an era. Those fools will rue it."

"You decide what you're going to do?"

"Go fishing. Bloody go fishing. As far from here as I can get. Take a day to break him in, then head south."

"I always wanted to retire to one of the Jewel Cities. I've never seen the sea. So you're headed out right away, eh?"

"You don't have to sound so damned cheerful about it. You and your Resurrectionist friends have won, but I'll go knowing you didn't beat me on my own ground."

"We haven't fought much lately. That's no reason to make up for lost time."

"Yeah. Yeah. That was uncalled for. Sorry. It's frustration. I'm helpless, and everything is going under."

"It can't be that bad."

"It can. I have my sources, Bo. I'm not some lone crazy. There are knowledgeable men in Oar who fear the same things I do. They say the Resurrectionists are going to try something. You'll see, too. Unless you get out."

"I probably will. Stancil knows this guy. But I can't go before we finish the dig."

Besand gave him a narrow-eyed look. "Bo, I ought to make you clean up before I go. Looks like Hell puked here."

Bomanz was not a fastidious worker. For a hundred feet around his pit the earth was littered with bones, useless scraps of old gear, and miscellaneous trash. A gruesome sight. Bomanz did not notice.

"Why bother? It'll be overgrown in a year. Besides, I don't want to make Men fu work any harder than he has to."

"You're all heart, Bo."

"I work at it."

"See you around."

"All right." And Bomanz tried to puzzle out what he had done wrong, what Besand had come for and not found. He shrugged, snuggled into the grass, closed his eyes.

The woman beckoned. Never had the dream been so clear. And never so successful. He went to her and took her hand, and she led him along a cool green tree-lined path. Thin shafts of sunlight stabbed through the foliage. Golden dust danced in the beams. She spoke, but he could not decipher her words. He did not mind. He was content.

Gold became silver. Silver became a great blunt blade stabbing a nighttime sky, obscuring the weaker stars. The comet came down, came down… and a great female face opened upon him. It was shouting. Shouting angrily. And he could not hear…

The comet vanished. A full moon rode the diamond-studded sky. A great shadow crossed the stars, obscuring the Milky Way. A head, Bomanz realized. A head of darkness. A wolf's head, snapping at the moon… Then it was gone. He was with the woman again, walking that forest path, tripping over sunbeams. She was promising him something…

He wakened. Jasmine was shaking him. "Bo! You're dreaming again. Wake up."

"I'm all right," he mumbled. "It wasn't that bad."

"You've got to stop eating so many onions. A man your age, and with an ulcer."

Bomanz sat up, patted his paunch. The ulcer had not bothered him lately. Maybe he had too much else on his mind. He swung his feet to the floor and stared into the darkness.

"What are you doing?"

"Thinking about going out to see Stance."

"You need your rest."

"Bull. Old as I am? Old people don't need to rest. Can't afford to. Don't have the time left to waste." He felt for his boots.

Jasmine muttered something typical. He ignored her. He had that down to a fine art. She added, "Take care out there."

"Eh?"

"Be careful. I don't feel comfortable now that Besand is gone."

"He only left this morning."

"Yes, but…"

Bomanz left the house muttering about superstitious old women who could not stand change.

He took a random roundabout route, occasionally pausing to watch the comet. It was spectacular. A great mane of glory. He wondered if his dream had been trying to tell him something. A shadow devouring the moon. Not solid enough, he decided.

Nearing the edge of town, he heard voices. He softened his step. People were not usually out at this time of night.

They were inside an abandoned shack. A candle flickered inside. Pilgrims, he supposed. He found a peephole, but he could see nothing save a man's back. Something about those slumped shoulders… Besand? Of course not. Too wide. More like that one ape of Tokar's…

He could not identify the voices, which were mostly whispers. One did sound a lot like Men fu's habitual whine. The words were distinct enough, though.

"Look, we did everything we could to get him out of here. You take a man's job and home, he ought to realize he's not wanted. But he won't go."

A second voice: "Then it's time for heroic measures."

Whiny voice: "That's going too far."

Short of disgust. "Yellow. I'll do it. Where is he?"

"Holed up in the old stable. The loft. Fixed himself a pallet, like an old dog in a comer."

A grunt as someone rose. Feet moving. Bomanz grabbed his belly, mouse-stepped away and hid in a shadow. A hulking figure crossed the road. Comet light glittered upon a naked blade.

Bomanz scuttled to a more distant shadow and stopped to think.

What did it mean? Murder, surely. But who? Why? Who had moved into the abandoned stable? Pilgrims and transients used the empty places all the time… Who were those men?

Possibilities occurred. He banished them. They were too grim. When his nerves returned, he hurried to the dig.

Stancil's lantern was there, but he was nowhere in sight. "Stance?" No answer. "Stancil? Where are you?" Still no answer. Almost in panic, he shouted, "Stancil!"

"That you, Pop?"

"Where are you?"

"Taking a crap."

Bomanz sighed, sat down. His son appeared a moment later, brushing sweat off his forehead. Why? It was a cool night.

"Stance, did Besand change his mind? I saw him leave this morning. A while ago I heard men plotting to kill somebody. Sounded like they meant him."

"Kill? Who?"

"I don't know. One of them might have been Men fu. There were three or four of them. Did he come back?"

"I don't think so. You didn't dream something, did you? What are you doing out in the middle of the night, anyway?"

"That nightmare again. I couldn't sleep. I didn't imagine it. Those men were going to kill somebody because he wouldn't leave."

"That doesn't make sense, Pop."

"I don't care…" Bomanz whirled. He heard the strange noise again. A figure staggered into the light. It took three steps and fell.

"Besand! It is Besand. What did I tell you?"

The former Monitor had a bloody wound across his chest. "I'm okay," he said. "I'll be okay. Just shock. It's not as bad as it looks."

"What happened?"

"Tried to kill me. Told you all hell would break loose. Told you they'd make a play. Beat them this round, though. Got their assassin instead."

"I thought you left. I saw you leave."

"I changed my mind. Couldn't go. I took an oath. Bo.

They took away my job but not my conscience. I've got to stop them."

Bomanz met his son's gaze. Stancil shook his head. "Pop, look at his wrist."

Bomanz looked. "I don't see anything." "That's the point. His amulet is gone." "He turned it in when he left. Didn't you?" "No," Besand said. "Lost it in the fight. Couldn't find it in the dark." He made that funny sound.

"Pop, he's bad hurt. I better go to the barracks." "Stance," Besand gasped. "Don't tell him. Get Corporal Husky."

"Right." Stancil hurried off.

The light of the comet filled the night with ghosts. The Barrowland seemed to twist and crawl. Momentary shapes drifted amongst the brush. Bomanz shuddered and tried to convince himself that his imagination was acting up now.

Dawn was approaching. Besand was over his shock, sipping broth Jasmine had sent. Corporal Husky came to report the result of his investigation. "Couldn't find anything, sir. Not no body, not no amulet. Not even no sign of no fight. It's like it never happened."

"I sure as hell didn't try to kill myself."

Bomanz became thoughtful. Had he not overheard the conspirators, he would have doubted Besand. The man was capable of staging an assault for sympathy.

"I believe you, sir. I was just saying what I found."

"They blew their best chance. We're warned now. Keep alert."

"Better not forget who's in charge now," Bomanz interjected. "Don't get anybody in trouble with our new leader."

"That rockbrain. Do what you can, Husky. Don't crawl out on a limb."

"Yes, sir." The corporal departed.

Stancil said, "Pop, you ought to get back to the house. You're looking grey."

Bomanz rose. "You all right now?" he asked.

Besand replied, "I'll be fine. Don't worry about me. The sun is up. That kind don't try anything in broad daylight."

Don't bet on it, Bomanz thought. Not if they're devotees of the Domination. They'll bring the darkness to high noon.

Out of earshot, Stancil said, "I was thinking last night, Pop. Before this got started. About our name problem. And suddenly it hit me. There's an old stone in Oar. A big one with runic carvings and pictographs. Been around forever. Nobody knows what it is or where it came from. Nobody really cares."

"So?"

"Let me show you what's carved on it." Stancil picked up a twig, brushed a dusty area clear of debris. He started drawing. "There's a crude star in a circle at the top. Then some lines of runes nobody can read. I can't remember those. Then some pictures." He sketched rapidly.

"That's pretty rough."

"So is the original. But look. This one. Stick figure with a broken leg. Here. A worm? Here, a man superimposed over an animal. Here, a man with a lightning bolt. You see? The Limper. Nightcrawler. Shifter. Stormbringer."

"Maybe. And maybe you're reaching."

Stancil kept drawing. "Okay. That's the way they are on the rock. The four I named. In the same order as on your chart. Look here. At your empty spots. They could be the Taken whose graves we haven't identified." He tapped what looked like a simple circle, a stick figure with its head cocked, and a beast head with a circle in its mouth.

"The positions match," Bomanz admitted.

"So?"

"So what?"

"You're being intentionally thick, Pop. A circle is a zero, maybe. Maybe a sign for the one called the Faceless Man or Nameless man. And here the Hanged Man. And here Moondog or Moonbiter?"

"I see it. Stance. I'm just not sure I want to." He told Stance about having dreamed of a great wolf's head snapping at the moon.

"You see? Your own mind is trying to tell you. Go check the evidence. See if it don't fit this way."

"I don't have to."

"Why not?"

"I know it by heart. It fits."

"Then what's the matter?"

"I'm not sure I want to do it anymore."

"Pop… Pop, if you won't, I will. I mean it. I'm not going to let you throw away thirty-seven years. What's changed, anyway? You gave up a hell of a future to come out here. Can you just write that off?"

"I'm used to this life. I don't mind it."

"Pop… I've met people who knew you back when. They all say you could have been a great wizard. They wonder what happened to you. They know that you had some great secret plan and went off to chase it. They figure you're dead now, 'cause anybody with your talent would've been heard from. Right now I'm wondering if they're not right."

Bomanz sighed. Stancil would never understand. Not without getting old under the threat of the noose.

"I mean it, Pop. I'll do it myself."

"No, you won't. You have neither the knowledge nor the skill. I'll do it. I guess it's fated."

"Let's go!"

"Not so eager. This isn't a tea party. It'll be dangerous. I need rest and time to get into the right frame of mind. I have to assemble my equipment and prepare the stage."

"Pop…"

"Stancil, who is the expert? Who is going to do this?"

"I guess you are."

"Then shut your mouth and keep it shut. The quickest I could try is tomorrow night. Assuming I stay comfortable with those names."

Stancil looked pained and impatient.

"What's the hurry? What's your stake in it?"

"I just… I think Tokar is bringing Glory. I wanted everything out of the way when she got here."

Bomanz raised a despairing eyebrow. "Let's go to the house. I'm exhausted." He glanced back at Besand, who was staring into the Barrowland. The man was stiff with defiance. "Keep him out of my hair."

"He won't be getting around too good for a while."

Later Bomanz muttered, "I wonder what it was all about, anyway? Really Resurrectionists?"

Stancii said, "The Resurrectionists are a myth Besand's bunch use to keep themselves employed."

Bomanz recalled some university acquaintances. "Don't be too sure."

When they reached the house, Stance trudged upstairs to study the chart. Bomanz ate a small meal. Before lying down, he told Jasmine, "Keep an eye on Stance. He's acting funny."

"Funny? How?"

"I don't know. Just funny. Pushy about the Barrowland. Don't let him find my gear. He might try to open the path himself."

"He wouldn't."

"I hope not. But watch him."

Chapter Fifteen:
THE BARROWLAND

 

Case heard Corbie was back at last. He ran to the old man's home. Corbie greeted him with a hug. "How you been, lad?"

"We thought you were gone for good." Corbie had been away eight months.

"I tried to get back. There's damned near no roads anymore."

"I know. The Colonel asked the Taken to fly supplies in."

"I heard. The military government in Oar got off their butts when that hit. Sent a whole regiment to start a new road. It's about a third of the way built. I came up on part of it."

Case donned his serious face. "Was it really your daughter?"

"No," Corbie said. On departing he had announced that he was off to meet a woman who might be his daughter. He claimed to have given over his savings to a man who would find his children and bring them to Oar.

"You sound disappointed."

He was. His researches had not worked out well. Too many records were missing.

"What sort of winter was it, Case?"

"Bad."

"It was bad down there, too. I worried for you all."

"We had trouble with the tribes. That was the worst part. You can always stay inside and throw another log on. But you can't eat if thieves steal your stores."

"I thought it might come to that."

"We watched your house. They broke in some of the empty places."

"Thank you." Corbie's eyes narrowed. His home had been violated? How thoroughly? A careful searcher might have found enough to hang him. He glanced out a window. "Looks like rain."

"It always looks like rain. When it don't look like snow. It got twelve feet deep last winter. People are worried. What's happened to the weather?"

"Old folks say it goes this way, after the Great Comet. The winters turn bad for a few years. Down in Oar it never got that cold. Plenty of snow, though."

"Wasn't that cold here. Just snowed so much you couldn't get out. I like to went crazy. The whole Barrowland looked like a frozen lake. You could hardly tell where the Great Barrow was."

"Uhm? I have to unpack yet. If you don't mind? Let everyone know I'm back. I'm near broke. I'll need work."

"Will do, Corbie."

Corbie watched from a window as Case ambled back to the Guard compound, taking an elevated walkway built since his departure. The mud below explained it. That and Colonel Sweet's penchant for keeping his men occupied. Once Case vanished he went to the second floor.

Nothing had been disturbed. Good. He peeped out a window, toward the Barrowland.

How it had changed in just a few years. A few more and you would not be able to find it.

He grunted, stared the harder. Then he retrieved the silken map from its hiding place, studied it, then the Barrowland again. After a time he fished sweat-stained papers from inside his shirt, where he had carried them since stealing them from the university in Oar. He spread them over the map.

Late that afternoon he rose, donned a cloak, gathered the cane he now carried, and went out. He limped through the water and mud and drizzle till he reached a point overlooking the Great Tragic River.

It was in flood, as always. Its bed had continued to shift. After a time he cursed, smote an old oak with his cane, and turned back.

The day had gone grey with the hour. It would be dark before he got home.

"Damned complications," he muttered. "I never counted on this. What the hell am I going to do?"

Take the high risk. The one chance he wished most to avoid, though its possible necessity was his real reason for having wintered in Oar.

For the first time in years he wondered if the game were worth the candle.

Whatever his course, it would be dark before he got home.

Chapter Sixteen:
THE PLAIN OF FEAR

 

You get mad and walk out on Darling, you can miss a lot. Elmo, One-Eye, Goblin, Otto, those guys like to bait me. They were not about to clue me in. They got everybody else to go along. Even Tracker, who seemed to be taking a shine to me and chattered at me more than everybody else combined, would not drop a hint. So when the day came, I went topside in total ignorance.

I'd packed the usual field gear. Our traditions are heavy infantry, though mostly we ride these days. All of us are too old to lug eighty pounds of gear. I dragged mine to the cavern that serves as a stable and smells like the grandfather of them all-and found that not one animal was saddled. Well, one. Darling's.

The stable boy just grinned when I asked what was going on. "Go on up," he said. "Sir."

"Yeah? Rotten bastards. They play games with me? I'll get them. They damned well better start remembering who keeps the Annals around here." I bitched and moaned all the way into the pre-moonset shadows that lurked around the tunnel mouth. There I found the rest of the outfit, all already up, with light gear. Each man carried his weapons and a sack of dried food.

"What you doing, Croaker?" One-Eye asked with suppressed laughter. "Look like you're taking everything you own. You a turtle? Carry your house on your back?"

And Elmo: "We ain't moving, boy. Just going on a raid."

"You're a bunch of sadists, you know that?" I stepped into the wan light. The moon was half an hour from setting. Far, Taken drifted on the night. Those son-of-a-bitches were determined to keep a close watch. Nearer, a whole; horde of menhirs had gathered. They looked like a graveyard out on the desert, there were so many of them. There were a lot of walking trees, too.

More, though there was no breeze, I could hear Old Father Tree tinkling. No doubt that meant something. A menhir might have explained. But the stones remain close-mouthed about themselves and their fellow species. Especially about Father Tree. Most of them won't admit he exists.

"Better lighten your load, Croaker," the Lieutenant said. He would not explain either.

"You going too?" I asked, surprised.

"Yep. Move it. We don't have long. Weapons and field medical kit should do it. Scoot."

I met Darling going down. She smiled. Grouchy as I was, I smiled back. I can't stay mad at her. I have known her since she was so high. Since Raven rescued her from the Limper's thugs long ago, in the Forsberg campaigns. I cannot see the woman that is without recalling the child that was. I get all sentimental and soft.

They tell me I suffer from a crippling romantic streak. Looking back, I'm almost inclined to agree. AH those silly stories I wrote about the Lady…

The moon was on the rim of the world when I returned topside. A whisper of excitement coursed among the men. Darling was up there with them, astride her flashy white mare, moving around, gesturing at those who understood sign. Above, the spots of luminescence that are characteristic of windwhale tentacles drifted lower than I'd ever heard tell of. Except in horror stories about starved whales dropping down to drag their tentacles on the ground, ripping up every plant and animal in their path.

"Hey!" I said. "We'd better look out. That sucker is coming down." A vast shadow blotted out thousands of stars. And it was expanding. Manias swarmed around it. Big ones, little ones, in-between ones-more than I'd ever seen.

My expostulation drew laughter. I turned surly again. I moved among the men, harassing them about the medical kits I expect them to carry on a mission. I was in a better mood when I finished. They all had them.

The windwhale kept coming down.

The moon disappeared. The instant it did the menhirs began to move. Moments later they began to glow on the side toward us. The side away from the Taken.

Darling rode along the pathway they marked. When she passed a menhir its light went out. I suspect it moved to the far end of the line.

I had no time to check. Elmo and the Lieutenant herded us into a line of our own. Above, the night filled with the squeaks and flutter of manias squabbling for flying room.

The windwhale settled astride the creek.

My god, it was big. Big! I had no idea… It stretched from the coral over the creek another two hundred yards. Four, five hundred yards long, all total. And seventy to a hundred wide.

A menhir spoke. I could not make out its words. But the men began moving forward.

In a minute my worst suspicions were confirmed. They were climbing the creature's flank, onto its back, where mantas normally nested.

It smelled. Smelled unlike anything I've ever smelled before, and strongly. Richly, you might say. Not necessarily a bad smell, but overpowering. And it felt strange to the touch. Not hairy, scaly, horny. Not exactly slimy, but still spongy and slick, like a full, exposed intestine. There were plenty of handholds. Our fingers and boots did not bother it.

The menhir mumbled and grumbled like an old first sergeant, both issuing orders and relaying complaints from the windwhale. I got the impression the windwhale was a naturally grouchy sort. He did not like this any more than did I. Can't say I blame him.

Up top there were more menhirs, each balanced precariously. As I arrived, one menhir told me to go to another of its kind. That one told me to sit about twenty feet away. The last men climbed aboard only moments later.

The menhirs vanished.

I began to feel odd. At first blush I thought that was because the whale was lifting off. When I flew with the Lady or Whisper or Soulcatcher, my stomach was in continual rebellion. But this was a different malaise. It took a while to understand it as an absence.

Darling's null was fading. It had been with me so long it had become part of my life…

What was happening?

We were going up. I felt the breeze shift. The stars turned ponderously. Then, suddenly, the whole north lighted up.

Mantas were attacking the Taken. A whole mess of them. The stroke was a complete surprise, for all the Taken must have sensed their presence. But the mantas were not doing that sort of thing…

Oh, hell, I thought. They're pushing them our way…

I grinned. Not our way at all. Toward Darling and her null, in a place unexpected.

As the thought occurred I saw the flash of vain sorceries, saw a carpet stagger, flutter earthward. A score of mantas swarmed it.

Maybe Darling was not as dumb as I thought. Maybe these Taken could be taken out. A profit, for sure, if nothing else went right.

But what were we doing? The lightning illuminated my companions. Nearest me were Tracker and Toadkiller Dog. Tracker seemed bored. But Toadkiller Dog was as alert as I had seen him. He was sitting up, watching the display. The only time I ever saw him not on his belly was at mealtime.

His tongue was out. He panted. Had he been human, I would have said he was grinning.

The second Taken tried to impress the mantas with his power. He was too immensely outnumbered. And below, Darling was moving. That second Taken suddenly entered her null. Down he went. The manta swarm pursued.

Both would survive landing. But then they would be afoot at the heart of the Plain, which tonight had taken a stand. Their chances of walking out looked grim.

The windwhale was up a couple thousand feet now, moving northeast, gaining speed. How far to the edge of the Plain nearest Rust? Two hundred miles? Fine. We might make it before dawn. But what about the last thirty miles, beyond the Plain?

Tracker started singing. His voice was soft at first. His song was old. Soldiers of the north countries had sung it for generations. It was a dirge, a song-before-death sung in memory of those about to die. I heard it in Forsberg, sung on both sides. Another voice took it up. Then another and another. Perhaps fifteen men knew it, of forty or so.

The windwhale glided northward. Far, far below, the Plain of Fear slid away, utterly invisible.

I began to sweat, though the upper air was cold.

Chapter Seventeen:
RUST

 

My first false assumption was that the Limper would be home when we called. Darling's maneuver against the Taken obviated that. I should have recalled that the Taken touch one another over long distances, mind to mind. Limper and Benefice passed nearby as we moved north.

"Down!" Goblin squealed when we were fifty miles short of the edge of the Plain. "Taken. Nobody move."

As always, old Croaker considered himself the exception to the rule. For the Annals, of course. I crept nearer the side of our monster mount, peered out into the night. Way below, two shadows raced down our backtrack. Once they were past I took a cussing from Elmo, the Lieutenant, Goblin, One-Eye, and anybody else who wanted a piece. I settled back beside Tracker. He just grinned and shrugged.

He came ever more to life as action approached.

My second false assumption was that the windwhale would drop us at the edge of the Plain. I was up again as that drew near, ignoring naughty remarks directed my way. But the windwhale did not go down. It did not descend for many minutes yet. I began to babble sillinesses when I resumed my place by Tracker.

He had his till-now mysterious case open. It contained a small arsenal. He checked his weapons. One long-bladed knife did not please him. He began applying a whetstone.

How many times had Raven done the same in the brief year he spent with the Company?

The whale's descent was sudden. Elmo and the Lieutenant passed among us, telling us to get off in a hurry. Elmo told me, "Stick close to me, Croaker. You too, Tracker. One-Eye. You feel anything down there?"

"Nothing. Goblin has his sleeping spell ready. Their sentries will be snoring when we touch down."

"Unless they aren't and raise the alarm," I muttered. Damn, but didn't I have it for the dark side?

No problems. We grounded. Men poured over the side. They spread out as if this part had been rehearsed. Parts may have been while I was sulking.

I could do nothing but what Elmo told me.

The early going reminded me of another barracks raid, long ago, south of the Sea of Torments, ere we enlisted with the Lady. We had slaughtered the Urban Cohorts of the Jewel City Beryl, our wizards keeping them snoozing while we murdered them.

Not work I enjoy, I'll tell you. Most of them were just kids who enlisted for want of something better to do. But they were the enemy, and we were making a grand gesture. A grander gesture than I had supposed Darling could order, or had in mind.

The sky began to lighten. Not one man of an entire regiment, save perhaps a few AWOL for the night, survived. Out on the main parade of the compound, which stood well outside Rust proper, Elmo and the Lieutenant began to yell. Hurry, hurry. More to do. This squad to wreck the stellae of the Taken. That squad to plunder regimental headquarters. Another to set out stuff to fire the barracks buildings. Still another to search the Limper's quarters for documents. Hurry, hurry. Got to get gone before the Taken return. Darling cannot distract them forever.

Somebody screwed up. Naturally. It always happens. Somebody fired one barracks early. Smoke rose.

Over in Rust, we soon learned, there was another regiment. In minutes a squadron of horse were galloping our way. And again, someone had screwed up. The gates were not secured. Almost without warning the horsemen were among us.

Men shouted. Weapons clanged. Arrows flew. Horses shrieked. The Lady's men got out, leaving half their number behind.

Now Elmo and the Lieutenant were in a hurry for sure. Those boys were going for help.

While we were scattering the imperials the windwhale lifted off. Maybe half a dozen men managed to scramble aboard. It rose just enough to clear the rooftops, then headed south. There was not yet enough light to betray it.

You can imagine the cussing and shouting. Even Toadkiller Dog found the energy to snarl. I slumped in defeat, dropped my butt onto a hitching rail, sat there shaking my head. A few men sped arrows after the monster. It did not notice.

Tracker leaned on the rail beside me. I grumped, "You wouldn't think something that big would be chicken." I mean, a windwhale can destroy a city.

"Do not impart motives to a creature you do not understand. You have to see its reasoning."

"What?"

"Not reasoning. I don't know the right word." He reminded me of a four-year-old struggling with a difficult concept. "It's outside the lands it knows. Beyond bounds its enemies believe it can breech. It runs for fear it will be seen and a secret betrayed. It has never worked with men. How can it remember them in a desperate moment?"

He was right, probably. But at the moment I was more interested in him than in his theory. That I would have stumbled across after I settled down. He made it seem one huge and incredibly difficult piece of thinking.

I wondered about his mind. Was he just slightly more than a half-wit? Was his Ravenlike act not a product of personality but of simpleness?

The Lieutenant stood on the parade ground, hands on hips, watching the windwhale leave us in the enemy's palm. After a minute he shouted, "Officers! Assemble!" After we gathered, he said, "We're in for it. As I see it, we have one hope. That that big bastard gets in touch with the menhirs when it gets back. And that they decide we're worth saving. So what we do is hold out till nightfall. And hope."

One-Eye made an obscene noise. "I think we better run for it."

"Yeah? And let the imperials track us? We're how far from home? You think we can make it with the Limper and his pals after us?"

"They'll be after us here."

"Maybe. And maybe they'll keep them busy out there. At least, if we're here, they'll know where to find us. Elmo, survey the walls. See if we can hold them. Goblin, Silent, get those fires put out. The rest of you, clean out the Taken's documents. Elmo! Post sentries. One-Eye. Your job is to figure out how we can get help from Rust. Croaker, give him a hand. You know who we have where. Come on. Move."

A good man, the Lieutenant. He kept his cool when, like all of us, what he wanted to do was run in circles and scream.

We didn't have a chance, really. This was the end of it. Even if we held off the troops from the city, there was Benefice and the Limper. Goblin, One-Eye, and Silent would be of no value against them. The Lieutenant knew that, too. He did not have them put their heads together to plot a surprise.

We could not get the fire controlled. The barracks had to burn itself out. While I tended two wounded men the others made the compound as defensible as thirty men could. Finished doctoring, I went poking through the Limper's documents. I found nothing immediately interesting.

"About a hundred men coming out of Rust!" someone shouted.

The Lieutenant snapped, "Make this place look abandoned!" Men scurried.

I popped up to the wall top for a quick peek at the scrub woods north of us. One-Eye was out there, creeping toward the city, hoping to get to Corder's friends.

Even after having been triply decimated in the great sieges and occupied for years, Rust remained adamant in its hatred for the Lady.

The imperials were careful. They sent scouts around the wall. They sent a few men up close to draw fire. Only after an hour of cautious maneuver did they rush the half-open gate.

The Lieutenant let fifteen get inside before tripping the portcullus. Those went down in a storm of arrows. Then we hustled to the wall and let fly at those milling around outside.

Another dozen fell. The others retreated beyond bowshot. There they milled and grumbled and tried to decide what next.

Tracker remained nearby all that time. I saw him loose only four arrows. Each ripped right through an imperial. He might not be bright, but he could use a bow.

"If they're smart," I told him, "they'll set a picket line and wait for the Limper. No point them getting hurt when he can handle us."

Tracker grunted. Toadkiller Dog opened one eye, grumbled deep in his throat. Down the way, Goblin and Silent crouched with heads together, alternately popping up to look outside. I figured they were plotting.

Tracker stood up, grunted again. I looked myself. More imperials were leaving Rust. Hundreds more.

Nothing happened for an hour, except that more and more troops appeared. They surrounded us.

Goblin and Silent unleashed their wizardry. It took the form of a cloud of moths. I could not discern their provenance. They just gathered around the two. When they were maybe a thousand strong, they fluttered away.

For a while there was a lot of screaming outside. When that died I ambled over and asked a grim-faced Goblin, "What happened?"

"Somebody with a touch of talent," he squeaked. "Almost as good as us."

"We in trouble?"

"In trouble? Us? We got it whipped, Croaker. We got them on the run. They just don't know it yet."

"I meant…"

"He won't hit back. He don't want to give himself away. There's two of us and only one of him."

The imperials began assembling artillery pieces. The compound had not been built to withstand bombardment.

Time passed. The sun climbed. We watched the sky. When would doom come riding in on a carpet?

Certain the imperials would not immediately attack, the Lieutenant had some of us gather our plunder on the parade ground, ready to board a windwhale. Whether he believed it or not, he insisted we would be evacuated after sunset. He would not entertain the possibility that the Taken would arrive first.

He did keep morale up.

The first missile fell an hour after noon. A ball of fire smacked down a dozen feet short of the wall. Another arced after it. It fell on the parade ground, sputtered, fizzled.

"Going to burn us out," I muttered to Tracker. A third missile came. It burned cheerfully, but also upon the parade.

Tracker and Toadkiller Dog stood and stared over the ramparts, the dog stretching on his hind legs. After a while Tracker sat down, opened his wooden case, withdrew a half dozen overly long arrows. He stood again, stared toward the artillery engines, arrow across his bow.

It was a long flight, but reachable even with my weapon. But I could have plinked all day and not come close.

Tracker fell into a state of concentration almost trancelike. He lifted and bent his bow, pulled it to the head of his arrow, let fly.

A cry rolled up the slope. The artillerymen gathered around one of their number.

Tracker loosed shafts smoothly and quickly. I'd guess he put four in the air at one time. Each found a target. Then he sat down. "That's that."

"Say what?"

"No more good arrows."

"Maybe that's enough to discourage them."

It was. For a while. About long enough for them to move back and put up some protective mantlets. Then the missiles came again. One found a building. The heat was vicious.

The Lieutenant prowled the wall restlessly. I joined his silent prayer that the imperials would not get worked up and rush us. There would be no way to stop them.

Chapter Eighteen:
SIEGE

 

The sun was settling. We were alive still. No Taken carpet had come swooping out of the Plain. We had begun to believe there was a chance.

Something hammered on the gate, a great loud pounding, like the hammer of doom. One-Eye roared up, "Let me in, damnit!"

Somebody scooted down and opened up. He came to the ramparts. "Well?" Goblin demanded.

"I don't know. Too many imperials. Not enough Rebels. They wanted to argue it out."

"How did you get through?" I asked.

"Walked," he snapped. Then, less belligerently, "Trade secret, Croaker."

Sorcery. Of course.

The Lieutenant paused to hear One-Eye's report, resumed his ceaseless prowl. I watched the imperials. There were indications they were out of patience.

One-Eye evidently supported my suspicion with direct evidence. He, Goblin, and Silent started plotting.

I am not certain what they did. Not moths, but the results were similar. A big outcry, soon stifled. But now we had three spook doctors to work the mine. The extra man sought the imperial who negated the spell.

A man ran toward the city, aflame. Goblin and One-Eye howled victoriously. Not two minutes later an artillery engine burst into flames. Then another. I watched our wizards closely.

Silent remained all business. But Goblin and One-Eye were getting carried away, having a good time. I feared they would go too far, that the imperials would attack in hope of overwhelming them.

They came, but later than I expected. They waited till nightfall. And then they were more cautious than the situation demanded.

Meantime, smoke began to waft up over the ruined walls of Rust. One-Eye's mission had succeeded. Somebody was doing something. Some of the imperials pulled out and hurried back to deal with it.

As the stars came out I told Tracker, "Guess we'll soon know if the Lieutenant was right."

He just looked puzzled.

Imperial horns sounded signals. Companies moved toward the wall. He and I stood to our bows, seeking targets that were difficult in the darkness, though there was a bit of moon. Out of the nowhere, he asked, "What's she like, Croaker?"

"What? Who?" I let fly.

"The Lady. They say you met her."

"Yeah. A long time ago."

"Well? What's she like?" He loosed. A cry answered the twang of his bowstring. He seemed perfectly calm. Seemed unaware that he might die in minutes. That disturbed me.

"About what you'd expect," I replied. What could I say? My contacts with her were but sketchy memories now. "Hard and beautiful."

The answer did not satisfy him. It never satisfies anyone. But it is the best I can give.

"What did she look like?"

"I don't know, Tracker. I was scared shitless. And she did things to my mind. I saw a young, beautiful woman. But you can see those anywhere."

His bow twanged, was answered by another cry. He shrugged. "I sort of wondered." He began loosing more quickly. The imperials were close now.

I swear, he never missed. I loosed when I saw something, but… He has eyes like an owl. All I saw was shadows among shadows.

Goblin, One-Eye, and Silent did what they could. Their witcheries painted the field with short-lived little flares and screams. What they could do was not enough. Ladders slapped against the wall. Most went right back over again. But men came up a few. Then there were a dozen more. I scattered arrows into the darkness, almost randomly, as quickly as I could, then drew my sword.

The rest of the men did likewise.

The Lieutenant shouted, "It's here!"

I flicked a glance at the stars. Yes. A vast shape had appeared overhead. It was settling. The Lieutenant had guessed right.

Now all we had to do was get aboard.

Some of the young men broke for the parade ground. The Lieutenant's curses did not slow them. Neither did Elmo's snarls and threats. The Lieutenant yelled for the rest of us to follow.

Goblin and One-Eye loosed something nasty. For a moment I thought it was some cruel conjured demon. It looked vile enough. And it did stall the imperials. But like much of their magic, it was illusion, not substance. The enemy soon caught on.

But we had us a head start. The men reached the parade before the imperials recollected themselves. They roared, certain they had us.

I reached the windwhale as it touched down. Silent snagged my arm as I started to scramble aboard. He indicated the documents we had scrounged. "Oh, damn! There isn't time."

Men scrambled past me during my moment of indecision. Then I tossed sword and bow topside and began pitching bundles up to Silent, who got somebody to relay them to the top.

A gang of imperials charged toward us. I started for an abandoned sword, saw I could not reach it in time, thought: Oh, shit-not now; not here.

Tracker stepped between me and them. His blade was like something out of legend. He killed three men in the blink of an eye, wounded another two before the imperials decided they faced someone preternatural. He took the offensive, though still outnumbered. Never have I seen a sword used with such skill, style, economy, and grace. It was a part of him, an extension of his will. Nothing could stand before it. For that moment I could believe old tales about magic swords.

Silent kicked me in the back, signed at me, "Quit gawking and get moving." I tossed up the last two bundles, began scaling the monster.

The men Tracker faced received reinforcements. He retreated. From up top someone sped arrows down. But I did not think he would make it. I kicked at a man who had gotten behind him. Another took his place, leapt at me…

Toadkiller Dog came out of nowhere. He locked his jaws in my assailant's throat. The man gurgled, responded as he might have if bitten by a krite. He lasted only a second.

Toadkiller Dog dropped away. I climbed a few feet, still 'trying to guard Tracker's back. He reached up. I caught his hand and heaved.

There were awful shouts and screams among the imperials. It was too dark to see why. I figured One-Eye, Goblin, and Silent were earning their keep.

Tracker flung up past me, took a firm hold, helped me. I climbed a few feet, looked down.

The ground was fifteen feet below. The windwhale was going up fast. The imperials stood around gawking. I fought my way to the top.

I looked down again as someone dragged me to safety. The fires in Rust were beneath us. Several hundred feet below. We were going up fast. No wonder my hands were cold.

Chills were not the reason I lay down shaking, though.

After it passed, I asked, "Anybody hurt? Where's my medical kit?"

Where, I wondered, were the Taken? How had we gotten through the day without a visit from our beloved enemy the Limper?

Going home I noticed more than I did coming north. I felt the life beneath me, the grumble and hum within the monster. I noted pre-adolescent mantas peeping from nesting places among the appendages which forested parts of the whale's back. And I saw the Plain in a different light, with the moon up to illuminate it.

It was another world, spare and crystalline at times, luminescent at others, sparkling and glowing in spots. What looked like lava pools lay to the west. Beyond, the flash and curl of a change storm illuminated the horizon. I suppose we were crossing its backtrail. Later, deeper into the Plain, the desert became more mundane.

Our steed was not the cowardly windwhale. This one was smaller and smelled less strongly. It was more spritely, too, and less tentative in its movements.

About twenty miles from home Goblin squealed, "Taken!" and everyone went flat. The whale climbed. I peeked over its side.

Taken for sure, but not interested in us. There was a lot of flash and roar way down there. Patches of desert were aflame. I saw the long, creepy shadows of walking trees on the move, the shapes of manias rushing across the light. The Taken themselves were afoot, except one desperado aloft battling the mantas. The one aloft was not the Limper. I would have recognized his tattered brown even at that distance.

Whisper, surely. Trying to escort the others out of enemy territory. Great. They would be busy for a few days.

The windwhale began to descend. (For the sake of these Annals, I wish part of a passage had taken place by day so I could record more details.) It touched down shortly. From the ground a menhir called, "Get down. Hurry."

Getting off was more trouble than boarding. The wounded now realized they were hurt. Everyone was tired and stiff. And Tracker would not move.

He was catatonic. Nothing reached him. He just sat there, staring at infinity. "What the hell?" Elmo demanded. "What's wrong with him?"

"I don't know. Maybe he got hit." I was baffled. And the more so once we got him into some light so I could examine him. There was nothing physically wrong. He had come through without a bruise.

Darling came outside. She signed, "You were right, Croaker. I am sorry. I thought it would be a stroke so bold it would fire the whole world." Of Elmo, she asked, "How many lost?"

"Four men. I don't know if they were killed or just got left." He seemed ashamed. The Black Company does not leave its brethren behind.

"Toadkiller Dog," Tracker said. "We left Toadkiller Dog."

One-Eye disparaged the mutt. Tracker rose angrily. He had salvaged nothing but his sword. His magnificent case and arsenal remained in Rust with his mongrel.

"Here now," the Lieutenant snapped. "None of that. One-Eye, go below. Croaker, keep an eye on this man. Ask Darling if the guys who ran out yesterday made it back."

Elmo and I both did.

Her answer was not reassuring. The great cowardly windwhale dumped them a hundred miles north, according to the menhirs. At least it descended before forcing them off.

They were walking home. The menhirs promised to shield them from the natural wickedness of the Plain.

We all went down into the Hole bickering. There is nothing like failure to set the sparks flying.

Failure, of course, can be relative. The damage we did was considerable. The repercussions would echo a long time. The Taken had to be badly rattled. Our capture of so many documents would force a restructuring of their plan of campaign. But still the mission was unsatisfactory. Now the Taken knew wind whales were capable of ranging beyond traditional bounds. Now the Taken knew we had resources beyond those they had suspected.

When you gamble, you do not show all your cards till after the final bet.

I scrounged around and found the captured papers, took them to my quarters. I did not feel like participating in the conference room post-mortem. It was sure to get nasty-even with everyone agreeing.

I shed my weapons, lighted a lamp, picked one of the document bundles, turned to my worktable. And there lay another of those packets from the west.

Chapter Nineteen:
BOMANZ'S TALE

 

Croaker:

Bomanz walked his dreams with a woman who could not make him understand her words. The green path of promise led past moon-eating dogs, hanged men, and sentries without faces. Through breaks in the foliage he glimpsed a sky-spanning comet.

He did not sleep well. The dream invariably awaited him when he dozed off. He did not know why he could not slide down into deep sleep. As nightmares went, this was mild.

Most of the symbolism was obvious, and most of it he refused to heed.

Night had fallen when Jasmine brought tea and asked, "Are you going to lie here all week?"

"I might."

"How are you going to sleep tonight?"

"I probably won't till late. I'll work in the shbp. What's Stance been up to?"

"He slept a while, went and brought a load from the site, pottered around the shop, ate, and went back out when somebody came to say Men fu was out there again."

"What about Besand?"

"It's all over town. The new Monitor is furious because he didn't leave. Says he won't do anything about it. The Guards are calling him a horse's ass. They won't take his orders. He's getting madder and madder."

"Maybe he'll learn something. Thanks for the tea. Is there anything to eat?"

"Leftover chicken. Get it yourself. I'm going to bed."

Grumbling, Bomanz ate cold, greasy chicken wings, washing them down with tepid beer. He thought about his dream. His ulcer gave him a nip. His head started aching. "Here we go," he muttered, and dragged himself upstairs.

He spent several hours reviewing the rituals he would use to leave his body and slide through the hazards of the Barrowland… Would the dragon be a problem? Indications were, it was meant for physical intruders. Finally: "It'll work. As long as that sixth barrow is Moondog's." He sighed, leaned back, closed his eyes.

The dream began. And midway through he found himself staring into green ophidian eyes. Wise, cruel, mocking eyes. He started awake.

"Pop? You up there?"

"Yeah. Come on up."

Stancil pushed into the room. He looked awful.

"What happened?"

"The Barrowland… The ghosts are walking."

"They do that when the comet gets close. I didn't expect them so soon. Must be going to get frisky this time. That's no call to get shook up."

"Wasn't that. I expected that. That I could handle. No. It's Besand and Men fu."

"What?"

"Men fu tried to get into the Barrowland with Besand's amulet."

"I was right! That little… Go on."

"He was at the dig. He had the amulet. He was scared to death. He saw me coming and headed downhill. When he got near where the moat used to be, Besand came out of nowhere, screaming and waving a sword. Men fu started running. Besand kept after him. It's pretty bright out there, but I lost track when they got up around the Howler's barrow. Besand must have caught him. I heard them yelling and rolling around in the brush. Then they started screaming."

Stancil stopped. Bomanz waited.

"I don't know how to describe it, Pop. I never heard sounds like that. AH the ghosts piled onto the Howler's barrow. It went on a long time. Then the screaming started getting closer."

Stancil, Bomanz concluded, had been shaken deeply. Shaken the way a man is when his basic beliefs are uprooted. Odd. "Go on."

"It was Besand. He had the amulet, but it didn't help. He didn't make it across the moat. He dropped it. The ghosts jumped him. He's dead, Pop. The Guards were all out there… They couldn't do anything but look. The Monitor wouldn't give them amulets so they could get him."

Bomanz folded his hands on the tabletop, stared at them. "So now we have two men dead. Three counting the one last night. How many will we have tomorrow night? Will I have to face a platoon of new ghosts?"

"You're going to do it tomorrow night?"

"That's right. With Besand gone there's no reason to delay it. Is there?"

"Pop… Maybe you shouldn't. Maybe the knowledge out there should stay buried."

"What's this? My son parroting my misgivings?"

"Pop, let's don't fight. Maybe I pushed too hard. Maybe I was wrong. You know more about the Barrowland than me."

Bomanz stared at his son. More boldly than he felt, he said, "I'm going in. It's time to put doubts aside and get on with it. There's the list. See if there's an area of inquiry that I've forgotten."

"Pop…"

"Don't argue with me, boy." It had taken him all evening to shed the ingrained Bomanz persona and surface the wizard so long and artfully hidden. But he was out now.

Bomanz went to a comer where a few seemingly innocuous objects were piled. He stood taller than usual. He moved more precisely, more quickly. He began piling things on the table. "When you go back to Oar, you can tell my old classmates what became of me." He smiled thinly. He could recall a few who would shudder even now, knowing he had studied at the Lady's knee. He'd never forgotten, never forgiven. And they knew him that well.

Stancil's pallor had disappeared. Now he was uncertain. This side of the father had not been seen since before the son's birth. It was outside his experience. "Do you want to go out there, Pop?"

"You brought back the essential details. Besand is dead. Men fu is dead. The Guards aren't going to get excited."

"I thought he was your friend."

"Besand? Besand had no friends. He had a mission… What're you looking at?"

"A man with a mission?"

"Could be. Something kept me here. Take this stuff downstairs. We'll do it in the shop."

"Where do you want it?"

"Doesn't matter. Besand was the only one who could have separated it from the junk."

Stancil went out. Later, Bomanz finished a series of mental exercises and wondered what had become of the boy. Stance hadn't returned. He shrugged, went on.

He smiled. He was ready. It was going to be simple.

The town was in an uproar. A Guard had tried to assassinate the new Monitor. The Monitor was so bewildered and frightened he had locked himself in his quarters. Crazy rumors abounded.

Bomanz walked through it with such calm dignity that he startled people who had known him for years. He went to the edge of the Barrowland, considered his long-time antagonist. Besand lay where he had fallen. The flies were thick. Bomanz threw a handful of dirt. The insects scattered. He nodded thoughtfully. Besand's amulet had disappeared again.

Bomanz located Corporal Husky. "If you can't do anything to get Besand out, then toss dirt in on him. There's a mountain around my pit."

"Yes, sir," Husky said, and only later seemed startled by his easy acquiescence.

Bomanz walked the perimeter of the Barrowland. The sun shone a little oddly through the comet's tail. Colors were a trifle strange. But there were no ghosts aprowl now. He saw no reason not to make his communication attempt. He returned to the village.

Wagons stood before the shop. Teamsters were busy loading them. Jasmine shrilled inside, cursing someone who had taken something he shouldn't. "Damn you, Tokar," Bomanz muttered. "Why today? You could have waited till it was over." He felt a fleeting concern. He could not rely on Stance if the boy were distracted. He shoved into the shop.

"It's grand!" Tokar said of the horse. "Absolutely magnificent. You're a genius, Bo."

"You're a pain in the butt. What's going on here? Who the hell are all these people?"

"My drivers. My brother Clete. My sister Glory. Stance's Glory. And our baby sister Snoopy. We called her that because she was always spying on us."

"Pleased to meet you all. Where's Stance?"

Jasmine said, "I sent him to get something for supper. With this crowd I'll have to start cooking early."

Bomanz sighed. Just what he needed, this night of nights. A house full of guests. "You. Put that back where you got it. You. Snoopy? Keep your hands off of stuff."

Tokar asked, "What's with you, Bo?"

Bomanz raised one eyebrow, met the man's gaze, did not answer. "Where's the driver with the big shoulders?"

"Not with me anymore." Tokar frowned.

"Thought not. I'll be upstairs if something critical comes up." He stamped through the shop, went up, settled in his chair, willed himself to sleep. His dreams were subtle. It seemed he could hear at last, but could not recall what he heard…

Stancil entered the upstairs room. Bomanz asked, "What are we going to do? That crowd is gumming up the works."

"How long do you need, Pop?"

"This could go all night every night for weeks if it works out." He was pleased. Stancil had recovered his courage.

"Can't hardly run them off."

"And can't go anywhere else, either." The Guards were in a hard, bitter mood.

"How noisy will you be, Pop? Could we do it here, on the quiet?"

"Guess we'll have to try. Going to be crowded. Get the stuff from the shop. I'll make room."

Bomanz's shoulders slumped when Stancil left. He was getting nervous. Not about the thing he would challenge, but about his own foresight. He kept thinking he had forgotten something. But he had reviewed four decades of notes without detecting a flaw in his chosen approach. Any reasonably educated apprentice should be able to follow his formulation. He spat into a corner. "Antiquarian's cowardice," he muttered. "Old-fashioned fear of the unknown."

Stancil returned. "Mom's got them into a game of Throws."

"I wondered what Snoopy was yelling about. Got everything?"

"Yes."

"Okay. Go down and kibbitz. I'll be there after I set up. We'll do it after they're in bed."

"Okay."

"Stance? Are you ready?"

"I'm okay, Pop. I just had the jitters last night. It's not every day I see a man killed by ghosts."

"Better get a feel for that kind of thing. It happens."

Stancil looked blank.

"You're sneaking studies on Black Campus, aren't you?" Black Campus was that hidden side of the university on which wizards learned their trade. Officially, it did not exist. Legally, it was prohibited. But it was there. Bomanz was a laureate graduate.

Stancil gave one sharp nod and left.

"I thought so," Bomanz whispered, and wondered: How black are you, son?

He pottered around till he had triple-checked everything, till he realized that caution had become an excuse for not socializing. "You're something," he mumbled to himself.

One last look. Chart laid out. Candles. Bowl of quicksilver. Silver dagger. Herbs. Censers… He still had that feeling. "What the hell could I have missed?"

Throws was essentially four-player checkers. The board was four times the usual size. Players played from each side. An element of chance was added by throwing a die before each move. If a player's throw came up six, he could move any combination of pieces six moves. Checkers rules generally applied, except that a jump could be declined.

Snoopy appealed to Bomanz the moment he appeared. "They're ganging up on me!" She was playing opposite Jasmine. Glory and Tokar were on her flanks. Bomanz watched a few moves. Tokar and the older sister were in cahoots. Conventional elimination tactics.

On impulse Bomanz controlled the fall of the die when it came to Snoopy. She threw a six, squealed, sent men charging all over. Bomanz wondered if he had been that rich in adolescent enthusiasm and optimism. He eyed the girl. How old? Fourteen?

He made Tokar throw a one, let Jasmine and Glory have what fate decreed, then gave Snoopy another six and Tokar another one. After a third time around Tokar grumbled, "This is getting ridiculous." The balance of the game had shifted. Glory was about to abandon him and side with her sister against Jasmine.

Jasmine gave Bomanz the fish-eye when Snoopy threw yet another six. He winked, let Tokar throw free. A two. Tokar grumbled, "I'm on the comeback trail now."

Bomanz wandered into the kitchen, poured himself a mug of beer. He returned to find Snoopy on the edge of disaster again. Her play was so frenetic she had to throw fours or better to survive.

Tokar, on the other hand, played a tediously conservative game, advancing in echelon, trying to occupy his flankers' king rows. A man much like himself, Bomanz reflected. First he plays to make sure he doesn't lose; then he worries about the win.

He watched Tokar roll a six and send a piece on an extravagant tour in which he took three men from his nominal ally, Glory.

Treacherous, too, Bomanz thought. That's worth keeping in mind. He asked Stancil, "Where's Clete?"

Tokar said, "He decided to stay with the teamsters. Thought we were crowding you too much."

"I see."

Jasmine won that game, and Tokar the next, whereupon the antique merchant said, "That's all for me. Take my seat, Bo. See you all in the morning."

Glory said. "I'm done, too. Can we go for a walk, Stance?"

Stancil glanced at his father. Bomanz nodded. "Don't go far. The Guards are in a bad mood."

"We won't," Stance said. His father smiled at his eager departure. It had been that way for him and Jasmine, long ago.

Jasmine observed, "A lovely girl. Stance is lucky."

"Thank you," Tokar said. "We think she's lucky, too."

Snoopy made a sour face. Bomanz allowed himself a wry smile. Somebody had a crush on Stancil. "Three-handed game?" he suggested. "Take turns playing the dummy till somebody is out?"

He let chance have its way with the players' throws but turned five and sixes for the dummy. Snoopy went out and took the dummy. Jasmine seemed amused. Snoopy squealed delightedly when she won. "Glory, I won!" she enthused when her sister and Stancil returned. "I beat them."

Stancil looked at the board, at his father. "Pop…"

"I fought all the way. She got the lucky throws."

Stancil smiled a disbelieving smile.

Glory said, "That's enough, Snoopy. Bedtime. This isn't the city. People go to bed early here."

"Aw…" The girl complained but went. Bomanz sighed. Being sociable was a strain.

His heartbeat quickened as he anticipated the night's work.

Stancil completed a third reading of his written instructions. "Got it?" Bomanz asked.

"I guess."

"Timing isn't important-as long as you're late, not early. If we were going to conjure some damnfool demon, you'd study your lines for a week."

"Lines?" Stancil would do nothing but tend candles and observe. He was there to help if his father got into trouble.

Bomanz had spent the past two hours neutralizing spells along the path he intended to follow. The Moondog name had been a gold strike.

"Is it open?" Stancil asked.

"Wide. It almost pulls you. I'll let you go yourself later in the week."

Bomanz took a deep breath, exhaled. He surveyed the room. He still had that nagging feeling of having forgotten something. He hadn't a hint what it might be. "Okay."

He settled into the chair, closed his eyes. "Dumni," he murmured. "Um muji dumni. Haikon. Dumni. Um muji dumni."

Stancil pinched herbs into a diminutive charcoal brazier. Pungent smoke filled the room. Bomanz relaxed, let the lethargy steal over him. He achieved a quick separation, drifted up, hovered beneath the rafters, watched Stancil. The boy showed promise.

Bo checked his ties with his body. Good. Excellent! He could hear with both his spiritual and physical ears. He tested the duality further as he drifted downstairs. Each sound Stance made came through clearly.

He paused in the shop, stared at Glory and Snoopy. He envied them their youth and innocence.

Outside, the comet's glow filled the night. Bomanz felt its power showering the earth. How much more spectacular would it become by the time the world entered its mane?

Suddenly, she was there, beckoning urgently. He reexam-ined his ties to his flesh. Yes. Still in trance. Not dreaming. He felt vaguely ill at ease.

She led him to the Barrowland, following the path he had opened. He reeled under the awesome power buried there, away from the might radiating from the menhirs and fetishes. Seen from his spiritual viewpoint, they took the form of cruel, hideous monsters leashed on short chains.

Ghosts stalked the Barrowland. They howled beside Bomanz, trying to breach his spells. The power of the comet and the might of the warding spells joined in a thunder which permeated Bomanz's being. How mighty were the ancients, he thought, that all this should remain after so long.

They approached the dead soldiers represented by pawns on Bomanz's chart. He thought he heard footsteps behind him… He looked back, saw nothing, realized he was hearing Stancil back at the house.

A knight's ghost challenged him. Its hatred was as timeless and relentless as the pounding surf along a cold, bleak shore. He sidled around.

Great green eyes stared into his own. Ancient, wise, merciless eyes, arrogant, mocking, and contemptuous. The dragon exposed its teeth in a sneer.

This is it, Bomanz thought. What I overlooked… But no. The dragon could not touch him. He sensed its irritation, its conviction that he would make a tasty morsel in the flesh. He hurried after the woman.

No doubt about it. She was the Lady. She had been trying to reach him, too. Best be wary. She wanted more than a grateful chela.

They entered the crypt. It was massive, spacious, filled with all the clutter that had been the Dominator's in life. Clearly, that life had not been spartan.

He pursued the woman around a furniture pile-and found her vanished. "Where?…"

He saw them. Side by side, on separate stone slabs. Shackled. Enveloped by crackling, humming forces. Neither breathed, yet neither betrayed the grey of death. They seemed suspended, marking time.

Legend exaggerated only slightly. The Lady's impact, even in this state, was immense. "Bo, you have a grown son." Part of him wanted to stand on its hind legs and howl like an adolescent in rut.

He heard steps again. Damn that Stancil. Couldn't he stand still? He was making racket enough for three people.

The woman's eyes opened. Her lips formed a glorious smile. Bomanz forgot Stancil.

Welcome, said a voice within his mind. We have waited a long time, haven't we?

Dumbstruck, he simply nodded.

have watched you. Yes, I see everything in this forsaken wilderness. I tried to help. The barriers were too many and too great. That cursed White Rose. She was no fool.

Bomanz glanced at the Dominator. That huge, handsome warrior-emperor slept on. Bomanz envied him his physical perfection.

He sleeps a deeper sleep.

Did he hear mockery? He could not read her face. The glamor was too much for him. He suspected that had been true for many men, and that it was true that she had been the driving force of the Domination.

was. And next time…

"Next time?"

Mirth surrounded him like the tinkle of wind chimes in a gentle breeze. You came to learn, O wizard. How will you repay vour teacher?

Here was the moment for which he had lived. His triumph lay before him. One part to go…

You were crafty. You were so careful, took so long, even that Monitor discounted you. I applaud you, wizard.

The hard part. Binding this creature to his will.

Wind-chimes laughter. You don't plan to bargain? You mean to compel?

"If I have to."

You won't give me anything?

"I can't give you what you want."

Mirth again. Silver-bells mirth. You can't compel me.

Bomanz shrugged imaginary shoulders. She was wrong. He had a lever. He had stumbled onto it as a youth, had recognized its significance immediately, and had set his feet on the long path leading to this moment.

He had found a cipher. He had broken it and it had given him the Lady's patronym, a name common in pre-Domination histories. Circumstances implicated one of that family's several daughters as the Lady. A little historical detective work had completed the task.

So he had solved a mystery that had baffled thousands for hundreds of years.

Knowing her true name gave him the power to compel the Lady. In wizardry, the true name is identical with the thing…

I could have shrieked. It seemed my correspondent ended on the brink of the very revelation for which I had been searching these many years. Damn his black heart.

This time there was a postscript, a little something more than story. The letter-writer had added what looked like chicken scratches. That they were meant to communicate I had no doubt. But I could make nothing of them.

As always, there was neither signature nor seal.

Chapter Twenty:
THE BARROWLAND

 

The rain never ceased. Mostly it was little more than a drizzle. When the day went especially well, it slackened to a falling mist. But always there was precipitation. Corbie went out anyway, though he complained often about aches in his leg.

"If the weather bothers you so, why stay here?" Case asked. "You said you think your kids live in Opal. Why not go down there and look for them yourself? At least the weather would be decent."

It was a tough question. Corbie had yet to create a convincing answer. He had not yet found one that would do himself, let alone enemies who might ask.

There was nothing Corbie was afraid to do. In another life, as another man, he had challenged the hellmakers themselves, unafraid. Swords and sorcery and death could not intimidate him. Only people, and love, could terrify him.

"Habit, I guess," he said. Weakly. "Maybe I could live in Oar. Maybe. I don't deal well with people, Case. I don't like them that much. I couldn't stand the Jewel Cities. Did I tell you I was down there once?"

Case had heard the story several times. He suspected Corbie had been more than down there. He thought one of the Jewel Cities was Corbie's original home. "Yeah. When the big Rebel push in Forsberg started. You told me about seeing the Tower on the way up."

"That's right. I did. Memory's slipping. Cities. I don't like them, lad. Don't like them. Too many people. Sometimes there's too many of them here. Was when I first came.

Nowadays it's about right. About right. Maybe too much fuss and bother because of the undead over there." He poked his chin toward the Great Barrow. "But otherwise about right. One or two of you guys I can talk to. Nobody else to get in my way."

Case nodded. He thought he understood while not understanding. He had known other old veterans. Most had had their peculiarities. "Hey! Corbie. You ever run into the Black Company when you was up here?"

Corbie froze, stared with such intensity the young soldier blushed. "Uh… What's the matter, Corbie? I say something wrong?"

Corbie resumed walking, his limp not slowing a furiously increased pace. "It was odd. Like you were reading my mind. Yes. I ran into those guys. Bad people. Very bad people."

"My dad told us stories about them. He was with them during the long retreat to Charm. Lords, the Windy Country, the Stair of Tear, all those battles. When he got leave time after the battle at Charm, he came home. Told awful stories about those guys."

"I missed that part. I got left behind at Roses, when Shifter and the Limper lost the battle. Who was your dad with? You've never talked about him much."

"Nightcrawler. I don't talk about him because we never got along."

Corbie smiled. "Sons seldom get on with their fathers. And that's the voice of experience speaking."

"What did your father do?"

Corbie laughed. "He was a farmer. Of sorts. But I'd rather not talk about him."

"What are we doing out here, Corbie?"

Double-checking Bomanz's surveys. But Corbie could not tell the lad that. Nor could he think of an adequate lie. "Walking in the rain."

"Corbie…"

"Can we keep it quiet for a while, Case? Please?"

"Sure."

Corbie limped all the way around the Barrowland, maintaining a respectful distance, never being too obvious. He did not use equipment. That would bring Colonel Sweet on the run. Instead, he consulted the wizard's chart in his mind. The thing blazed with its own life there, those arcane TelleKurre symbols glowing with a wild and dangerous life. Studying the remains of the Barrowland, he could find but a third of the map's referents. The rest had been undone by time and weather.

Corbie was no man to have trouble with his nerve. But he was afraid now. Near the end of their stroll he said, "Case, I want a favor. Perhaps a double favor."

"Sir?"

"Sir? Call me Corbie."

"You sounded so serious."

"It is serious."

"Say on, then."

"Can you be trusted to keep your mouth shut?"

"If necessary."

"I want to extract a conditional vow of silence."

"I don't understand."

"Case, I want to tell you something. In case something happens to me."

"Corbie!"

"I'm not a young man, Case. And I have a lot wrong with me. I've been through a lot. I feel it catching up. I don't expect to go soon. But things happen. If something should, there's something I don't want to die with me."

"Okay, Corbie."

"If I suggested something, can you keep it to yourself? Even if you think you maybe shouldn't? Can you do something for me?"

"You're making it hard, not telling me."

"I know. It's not fair. The only other man I trust is Colonel Sweet. And his position wouldn't let him make such a promise."

"It's not illegal?"

"Not strictly speaking."

"I guess."

"Don't guess, Case."

"All right. You have my word."

"Good. Thank you. It is appreciated, never doubt that.

Two things. First. If something happens to me, go to the room on the second floor of my home. If I have left an oilskin packet on the table there, see that it gets to a blacksmith named Sand, in Oar."

Case looked suitably dubious and baffled.

"Second, after you do that-and only after-tell the Colonel the undead are stirring."

Case stopped walking.

"Case." There was a note of command in Corbie's voice the youth had not heard before.

"Yes. All right."

"That's it."

"Corbie…"

"No questions now. In a few weeks, maybe I can explain everything. All right?"

"Okay."

"Not a word now. And remember. Packet to Sand the blacksmith. Then word to the Colonel. Tell you what. If I can, I'll leave the Colonel a letter, too."

Case merely nodded.

Corbie took a deep breath. It had been twenty years since he had attempted the simplest divining spell. Never had he tried anything on the order of what he now faced. Back in those ancient times, when he was another man, or boy, sorcery was a diversion for wealthy youths who would rather play wizard than pursue legitimate studies.

All was ready. The tools of the sorcerer appropriate to the task lay on the table on the second floor of the house that Bomanz built. It was fitting that he follow the old one.

He touched the oilskin packet left for Case, the opaque letter to Sweet, and prayed neither would touch the young man's hands. But if what he suspected were true, it was better the enemy knew than the world be surprised.

There was nothing left to do but do it. He gulped half a cup of cold tea, took his seat. He closed his eyes, began a chant taught him when he was younger than Case. His was not the method Bomanz had used, but it was as effective.

His body would not relax, would not cease distracting him.

But at last the full lethargy closed in. His ka loosed its ten thousand anchors to his flesh.

Part of him insisted he was a fool for attempting this without the skills of a master. But he hadn't the time for the training a Bomanz required. He had learned what he could during his absence from the Old Forest.

Free of the flesh, yet connected by invisible bonds that would draw him back. If his luck held. He moved away carefully. He conformed to the rule of bodies exactly. He used the stairway, the doorway, and the sidewalks built by the Guard. Maintain the pretense of flesh and the flesh would be harder to forget.

The world looked different. Each object had its unique aura. He found it difficult to concentrate on the grand task.

He moved to the bounds of the Barrowland. He shuddered under the impact of thrumming old spells that kept the Domi-nator and several lesser minions bound. The power there! Carefully, he walked the boundary till he found the way that Bomanz had opened, still not fully healed.

He stepped over the line.

He drew the instant attention of every spirit, benign and malign, chained within the Barrowland. There were far more than he expected. Far more than the wizard's map indicated. Those soldier symbols that surrounded the Great Barrow… They were not statues. They were men, soldiers of the White Rose, who had been set as spirit guards perpetually standing between the world and the monster that would devour it. How driven must they have been. Now dedicated to their cause.

The path wound past the former resting places of old Taken, outer circle, inner circle, twisting. Within the inner circle he saw the true forms of several lesser monsters that had served the Domination. The path stretched like a trail of pale silver mist. Behind him that mist became more dense, his passage strengthening the way.

Ahead, stronger spells. And all those men who had gone into the earth to surround the Dominator. And beyond them, the greater fear. The dragon thing that, on Bomanz's map, lay coiled around the crypt in the heart of the Great Barrow.

Spirits shrieked at him in TelleKurre, in UchiTelle, in languages he did not know and tongues vaguely like some still current. One and all, they cursed him. One and all, he ignored them. There was a thing in a chamber beneath the greatest mound. He had to see if it lay as restless as he suspected.

The dragon. Oh, by all the gods that never were, that dragon was real. Real, alive, of flesh, yet it sensed and saw him. The silver trail curved past its jaws, through the gap between teeth and tail. It beat at him with a palpable will. But he would not be stayed.

No more guardians. Just the crypt. And the monster man inside was constrained. He had survived the worst…

The old devil should be sleeping. Hadn't the Lady defeated him in his attempt to escape through Juniper? Hadn't she put him back down?

It was a tomb like many around the world. Perhaps a bit richer. The White Rose had laid her opponents down in style. There were no sarcophagi, though. There. That empty table was where the Lady would have lain.

The other boasted a sleeping man. A big man, and handsome, but with the mark of the beast upon him, even in repose. A face full of hot hatred, of the anger of defeat.

Ah, then. His suspicions were groundless. The monster slept indeed…

The Dominator sat up. And smiled. His smile was the most wicked Corbie had ever seen. Then the undead extended a hand in welcome. Corbie ran.

Mocking laughter pursued him.

Panic was an emotion entirely unfamiliar. Seldom had he experienced it. He could not control it. He was only vaguely aware of passing the dragon and the hate-filled spirits of White Rose soldiers. He barely sensed the Dominator's creatures beyond, all howling in delight.

Even in his panic he clung to the misty trail. He made only one misstep…

But that was sufficient.

The storm broke over the Barrowland. It was the most furious in living memory. The lightning clashed with the ferocity of heavenly armies, hammers and spears and swords of fire smiting earth and sky. The downpour was incessant and impenetrable.

One mighty bolt struck the Barrowland. Earth and shrubbery flew a hundred yards into the air. The earth staggered. The Eternal Guard scrambled to arms terrified, sure the old evil had broken its chains.

On the Barrowland two large shapes, one four-footed, one bipedal, formed in the afterglow of the lightning strike. In a moment both raced along a twisting path, leaving no mark upon water or mud. They passed the bounds of the Barrowland, fled toward the forest.

No one saw them. When the Guard reached the Barrowland, carrying weapons and lanterns and fear like vast loads of lead, the storm had waned. The lightning had ceased its boisterous brawl. The rain had fallen off to normal.

Colonel Sweet and his men spent hours roaming the bounds of the Barrowland. No one found a thing.

The Eternal Guard returned to its compound cursing the gods and weather.

On the second floor of Corbie's house Corbie's body continued to breathe one breath each five minutes. His heart barely turned over. He would be a long time dying without his spirit.

Chapter Twenty-One:
THE PLAIN OF FEAR

 

I asked to see Darling and got an immediate audience. She expected me to come in raising hell about ill-advised military actions by outfits that could not afford losses. She expected lessons in the importance of maintaining cadres and forces-in-being. I surprised her by coming with neither. Here she was, primed to weather the worst, to get it over so she could get back to business, and I disappointed her.

Instead, I took her the letters from Oar, which I had shared with no one yet. She expressed curiosity. I signed: "Read them."

It took a while. The Lieutenant ducked in and out, growing more impatient each time. She finished, looked at me. "Well?" she signed.

"That comes from the core of the documents I am missing. Along with a few other things, that story is what I have been hunting. Soulcatcher gave me to believe that the weapon we want is hidden inside this story."

"It is not complete." "No. But does it not give you pause?" "You have no idea who the writer is?" "No. And no way to find out, short of looking him up. Or her." Actually, I had a couple of suspicions, but each seemed more unlikely than the other.

"These have come with swift regularity," Darling observed. "After all this time." That made me suspect she shared one of my suspicions. That "all this time."

"The couriers believe they were forwarded over a more spread period."

"It is interesting, but not yet useful. We must await more." "It will not hurt to consider what it means. The end part of the last, there. That is beyond me. I have to work on that. It may be critical. Unless it is meant to baffle someone who intercepts the fragment."

She shuffled out the last sheet, stared at it. A sudden light illuminated her face. "It is the finger speech. Croaker," she signed. "The letters. See? The speaking hand, as it forms the alphabet."

I circled behind her. I saw it now, and felt abysmally stupid for having missed it. Once you saw that, it was easy to read. If you knew your sign. It said:

This may be the last communication, Croaker. There is something I must do. The risks are grave. The chances hang against me, but I must go ahead. If you do not receive the final installment, about Bomanz's last days, you will have to come collect it. I will conceal one copy within the home of the wizard, as the story describes. You may find another in Oar. Ask for the blacksmith named Sand.

Wish me luck. By now you must have found a place of safety. I would not bring you forth unless the fate of the world hinged upon it.

There was no signature here, either.

Darling and I stared at one another. I asked, "What do you think? What should I do?"

"Wait."

"And if no further episodes are forthcoming?"

"Then you must go looking."

"Yes." Fear. The world was marshaled against us. The Rust raid would have the Taken in a vengeful frenzy.

"It may be the great hope, Croaker."

"The Barrowland, Darling. Only the Tower itself could be more dangerous."

"Perhaps I should accompany you."

"No! You will not be risked. Not under any circumstances. The movement can survive the loss of one beat-up, worn-out old physician. It cannot without the White Rose."

She hugged me hard, backed off, signed, "I am not the White Rose, Croaker. She is dead four centuries. I am Darling."

"Our enemies call you the White Rose. Our friends do. There is power in a name." I waved the letters. "That is what this is about. One name. What you have been named you must be."

"I am Darling," she insisted.

"To me, maybe. To Silent. To a few others. But to the world you are the White Rose, the hope and the salvation." It occurred to me that a name was missing. The name Darling wore before she became a ward of the Company. Always she had been Darling, because that was what Raven called her. Had he known her birthname? If so, it no longer mattered. She was safe. She was the last alive to know it, if even she remembered. The village where we found her, mauled by the Limper's troops, was not the sort that kept written records.

"Go," she signed. "Study. Think. Be of good faith. Somewhere, soon, you will find the thread."

Chapter Twenty-Two:
THE PLAIN OF FEAR

 

The men who fled Rust with the cowardly windwhale eventually arrived. We learned that the Taken had escaped the Plain, all in a rage because but one carpet survived. Their offensive would be delayed till the carpets were replaced. And carpets are among the greatest and most costly magicks. I suspect the Limper had to do a lot of explaining to the Lady.

I drafted One-Eye, Goblin, and Silent into an expanded project. I translated. They extracted proper names, assembled them in charts. My quarters became all but impenetrable. And barely livable while they were there, for Goblin and One-Eye had had a couple of tastes of life outside Darling's null. They were at one another constantly.

And I began having nightmares.

One evening I posed a challenge, half as a result of no further courier arriving, half as busy work meant to stop Goblin and One-Eye from driving me mad. I said, "I may have to leave the Plain. Can you do something so I don't attract any special attention?"

They had their questions. I answered most honestly. They wanted to go too, as if a journey west was established fact. I said, "No way are you going. A thousand miles of this crap? I'd commit suicide before we got off the Plain. Or murder one of you. Which I'm considering anyway."

Goblin squeaked. He pretended mortal terror. One-Eye said, "Get within ten feet of me and I'll turn you into a lizard."

I made a rude noise. "You can barely turn food into shit."

Goblin cackled. "Chickens and cows do better. You can fertilize with theirs."

"You got no room to talk, runt," I snapped.

"Getting touchy in his old age," One-Eye observed. "Must be rheumatiz. Got the rheumatiz, Croaker?"

"He'll wish his problem was rheumatism if he keeps on," Goblin promised. "It's bad enough I have to put up with you. But you're at least predictable."

"Predictable?"

"Like the seasons."

They were off. I sped Silent a look of appeal. The son-of-a-bitch ignored me.

Next day Goblin ambled in wearing a smug smile. "We figured something out, Croaker. In case you do go wandering."

"Like what?"

"We'll need your amulets."

I had two that they had given me long ago. One was supposed to warn me of the proximity of the Taken. It worked quite well. The other, ostensibly, was protective, but it also let them locate me from a distance. Silent tracked it the time Catcher sent Raven and me to ambush Limper and Whisper in the Forest of Cloud, when Limper tried to go over to the Rebel.

Long ago and far away. Memories of a younger Croaker.

"We'll work up some modifications. So you can't be located magically. Let me have them. Later we'll have to go outside to test them."

I eyed him narrowly.

He said, "You'll have to come so we can test them by trying to find you."

"Yeah? Sounds like a drummed-up excuse to get outside the null."

"Maybe." He grinned.

Whatever, Darling liked the notion. Next evening we headed up the creek, skirting Old Father Tree. "He looks a little peaked," I said.

"Caught the side wash of a Taken spell during the brouhaha," One-Eye explained. "I don't think he was pleased."

The old tree tinkled. I stopped, considered it. It had to be thousands of years old. Trees grow very slow on the Plain. What stories it would tell!

"Come on, Croaker," Goblin called. "Old Father ain't talking." He grinned his frog grin.

They know me too well. Know when I see anything old I wonder what it has seen. Damn them, anyhow.

We left the watercourse five miles from the Hole, quartered westward into desert where the coral was especially dense and dangerous. I guess there were five hundred species, in reefs so close they were almost impenetrable. The colors were riotous. Fingers, fronds, branches of coral soared thirty feet into the air. I remain eternally amazed that the wind does not topple them.

In a small sandy place surrounded by coral, One-Eye called a halt. "This is far enough. We'll be safe here."

I wondered. Our progress had been followed by manias and the creatures that resemble buzzards. Never will I trust such beasts completely.

Long, long ago, after the Battle at Charm, the Company crossed the Plain en route to assignments in the east. I saw horrible things happen. I could not shake the memories.

Goblin and One-Eye played games but also tended to business. They remind me of active children. Always into something, just to be doing. I lay back and watched the clouds. Soon I fell asleep.

Goblin wakened me. He returned my amulets. "We're going to play hide-and-seek," he said. "We'll give you a head start. If we've done everything right, we won't be able to find you."

"Now that's wonderful," I replied. "Me alone out here, wandering around lost." I was just carping. I could find the Hole. As a nasty practical joke I was tempted to head straight there.

This was business, though.

I set off to the southwest, toward the buttes. I crossed the westward trail and went into hiding among quiescent walking trees. Only after darkness fell did I give up waiting. I walked back to the Hole, wondering what had become of my companions. I startled the sentry when I arrived. "Goblin and One-Eye come in?"

"No. I thought they were with you."

"They were." Concerned, I went below, asked the Lieutenant's advice.

"Go find them," he told me.

"How?"

He looked at me like I was a half-wit. "Leave your silly amulets, go outside the null, and wait."

"Oh. Okay."

So I went back outside, walked up the creek, grumbling. My feet ached. I was not used to so much hiking. Good for me, I told myself. Had to be in shape if there was a trip to Oar in the cards.

I reached the edge of the coral reefs. "One-Eye! Goblin! You guys around?"

No answer. I was not going on looking, though. The coral would kill me. I circled north, assuming they had moved away from the Hole. Each few minutes I dropped to my knees, hoping to spot a menhir's silhouette. The menhirs would know what had become of them.

Once I saw some flash and fury from the corner of my eye and, without thinking, ran that way, thinking it was Goblin and One-Eye squabbling. But a direct look revealed the distant rage of a change storm.

I stopped immediately, belatedly remembering that only death hurries on the Plain by night.

I was lucky. Just steps onward the sand became spongy, loose. I squatted, sniffed a handful. It held the smell of old death. I backed away carefully. Who knows what lay in waiting beneath that sand?

"Better plant somewhere and wait for the sun," I muttered. I was no longer certain of my position.

I found some rocks that would break the wind, some brush for firewood, and pitched camp. The fire was more to declare myself to beasts than to keep warm. The night was not cold.

Firemaking was a symbolic statement out there.

Once the flames rose I found that the place had been used before. Smoke had blackened the rocks. Native humans, probably. They wander in small bands. We have little intercourse with them. They have no interest in the world struggle.

Will failed me sometime after the second hour. I fell asleep.

The nightmare found me. And found me unshielded by amulets or null.

She came.

It had been years. Last time it was to report the final defeat of her husband in the affair at Juniper.

A golden cloud, like dust motes dancing in a sunbeam. An all-over feeling of being awake while sleeping. Calmness and fear together. An inability to move. All the old symptoms.

A beautiful woman formed in the cloud, a woman out of daydream. The sort you hope to meet someday, knowing there is no chance. I cannot say what she wore, if she wore anything. My universe consisted of her face and the terror its presence inspired.

Her smile was not at all cold. Long ago, for some reason, she took an interest in me. I supposed she retained some residue of the old affection, as one does for a pet long dead.

"Physician." Breeze in the reeds beside the waters of eternity. The whisper of angels. But never could she make me forget the reality whence the voice sprang.

Nor was she ever so gauche as to tempt me, either with promises or herself. That, perhaps, is one reason I think she felt a certain fondness. When she used me, she gave it to me straight going in.

I could not respond.

"You are safe. Long ago, by your standard of time, I said I would remain in touch. I have been unable. You cut me off. I have been trying for weeks."

The nightmares explained.

"What?" I squeaked like Goblin.

"Join me at Charm. Be my historian."

As always when she touched me, I was baffled. She seemed to consider me outside the struggle while yet a part of it. On the Stair of Tear, on the eve of the most savage sorcerous struggle ever I witnessed, she came to promise me I would come to no harm. She seemed intrigued with my lesser role as Company historian. Back when, she insisted I record events as they happened. Without regard to pleasing anyone. I had done so within the limits of my prejudices.

"The heat in the crucible is rising, physician. Your White Rose is crafty. Her attack behind the Limper was a grand stroke. But insignificant on the broader canvas. Don't you agree?"

How could I argue? I did agree.

"As your spies have no doubt reported, five armies stand poised to cleanse the Plain of Fear. It is a strange and unpredictable land. But it will not withstand what is being marshaled."

Again I could not argue, for I believed her. I could but do what Darling so often spoke of: Buy time. "You may be surprised."

"Perhaps. Surprises have been calculated into my plans. Come out of that cold waste, Croaker. Come to the Tower. Become my historian."

This was as near temptation as ever she had come. She spoke to a part of me I do not understand, a part almost willing to betray comrades of decades. If I went, there was so much I would know. So many answers illuminated. So many curiosities satisfied.

"You escaped us at Queen's Bridge."

Heat climbed my neck. During our years on the run the Lady's forces had overtaken us several times. Queen's Bridge was the worst. A hundred brothers had fallen there. And to my shame, I left the Annals behind, buried in the river bank. Four hundred years worth of Company history, abandoned.

There was just so much that could be carried away. The papers down in the Hole were critical to our future. I took them instead of the Annals. But I suffer frequent bouts of guilt. I must answer the shades of brethren who have gone before. Those Annals are the Black Company. While they exist, the Company lives.

"We escaped and escaped, and will continue to escape. It is fated."

She smiled, amused. "I have read your Annals, Croaker. New and old."

I began throwing wood onto the embers of my fire. I was not dreaming. "You have them?" Till that moment I had silenced guilt with promises to recover them.

"They were found after the battle. They came to me. I was pleased. You are honest, as historians go."

"Thank you. I try."

"Come to Charm. There is a place for you in the Tower. You can see the grand canvas from here."

"I can't."

"I cannot shield you there. If you stay, you must face what befalls your Rebel friends. The Limper commands that campaign. I will not interfere. He is not what he was. You hurt him. And he had to be hurt more to be saved. He has not forgiven you that, Croaker."

"I know." How many times had she used my name? In all our contacts previously, over years, she had used it but once.

"Don't let him take you."

A slight, twisted bit of humor rose from somewhere inside me. "You are a failure. Lady."

She was taken aback.

"Fool that I am, I recorded my romances in the Annals. You read them. You know I never characterized you as black. Not. I think, as I would characterize your husband. I suspect an unconsciously sensed truth lies beneath the silliness of those romances."

"Indeed?"

"I don't think you are black. I think you're just trying. I think that, for all the wickedness you've done, part of the child that was remains untainted. A spark remains, and you can't extinguish it."

Unchallenged, I became more daring. "I think you've selected me as a symbolic sop to that spark. I am a reclamation project meant to satisfy a hidden streak of decency, the way my friend Raven reclaimed a child who became the White Rose. You read the Annals. You know to what depths Raven sank once he concentrated all decency in one cup. Better, perhaps, that he had had none at all. Juniper might still exist. So might he."

"Juniper was a boil overdue for lancing. I am not come to be mocked, physician. I will not be made to look weak even before an audience of one."

I started to protest.

"For I know that this, too, will end up in your Annals."

She knew me. But then, she had had me before the Eye.

"Come to the Tower, Croaker. I demand no oath."

"Lady…"

"Even the Taken bind themselves with deadly oaths. You may remain free. Just do what you do. Heal, and record the truth. What you would do anywhere. You have value not to be wasted out there."

Now there was a sentiment with which I could agree wholeheartedly. I would take it back and rub some people's noses in it. "Say what?"

She started to speak. I raised a warning hand. I had spoken to myself, not to her. Was that a footfall? Yes. Something big coming. Something moving slowly, wearily.

She sensed it, too. An eye blink and she was gone, her departure sucking something from my mind, so that once more I was not certain I had not dreamed everything, for all that every word remained immutably inscribed on the stone of my mind.

I shuffled brush onto my fire, backed into a crack behind the dagger that was the only weapon I'd had sense enough to bring.

It came closer. Then paused. Then came on. My heartbeat increased. Something thrust into the firelight.

"Toadkiller Dog! What the hell, hey? What're you doing? Come on in out of the cold, boy." The words tumbled out, bearing fear away. "Boy, will Tracker be glad to see you. What happened to you?"

He came forward cautiously, looking twice as mangy as ever. He dropped onto his belly, rested his chin on forepaws, closed one eye.

"I don't have any food. I'm sort of lost myself. You're damned lucky, know that? Making it this far. The plain is a bad place to be on your own."

Right then that old mongrel looked like he agreed. Body language, if you will. He had survived, but it had not been easy.

I told him, "Sun comes up, we'll head back. Goblin and One-Eye got lost; it's their own tough luck."

After Toadkiller Dog's arrival I rested better. I guess the old alliance is imprinted on people, too. I was confident he would warn me if trouble beckoned.

Come morning we found the creek and headed for the Hole. I stopped, as I often do, to approach Old Father Tree for a little one-sided conversation about what he had seen during his long sentinelship. The dog would not come anywhere near. Weird. But so what? Weird is the order of the day on the Plain.

I found One-Eye and Goblin snoring, sleeping in. They had returned to the Hole only minutes after my departure in search of them. Bastards. I would redress the balance when the chance came.

I drove them crazy by not mentioning my night out.

"Did it work?" I demanded. Down the tunnel Tracker was having a noisy reunion with his mutt.

"Sort of," Goblin said. He was not enthusiastic.

"Sort of? What's sort of! Does it work or doesn't it?"

"Well, what we got is a problem. Mainly, we can keep the Taken from locating you. From getting a fix on you, so to speak."

Obfuscation is a sure sign of trouble with this guy. "But? Butt me the but, Goblin."

"If you go outside the null, there's no hiding the fact that you are out."

"Great. Real great. What good are you guys, anyway?"

"It's not that bad," One-Eye said. "You wouldn't attract any attention unless they find out you're out from some other source. I mean, they wouldn't be watching for you, would they? No reason to. So it's just as good as if we got it to do everything we wanted."

"Crap! You better start praying that next letter comes through. Because if I go out and get my ass killed, guess who's going to haunt whom forever?"

"Darling wouldn't send you out."

"Bet? She'll go through three or four days of soul-searching. But she'll send me. Because that last letter will give us the key."

Sudden fear. Had the Lady probed my mind?

"What's the matter, Croaker?"

I was saved a lie by Tracker's advent. He bounced in and pumped my hand like a mad fool. "Thank you, Croaker. Thanks for bringing him home." Out he went.

"What the hell was that?" Goblin asked.

"I brought his dog home."

"Weird."

One-Eye chortled. "The pot calling the kettle black."

"Yeah? Lizard snot. Want me to tell you about weird?"

"Stow it," I said. "If I get sent out of here I want this stuff in perfect order. I just wish we had people who could read this junk."

"Maybe I can help." Tracker was back. The big dumb lout. A devil with a sword, but probably unable to write his own name.

"How?"

"I could read some of that stuff. I know some old language. My father taught me." He grinned as if at a huge joke. He selected a piece written in TelleKurre. He read it aloud. The ancient language rolled off his tongue naturally, as I had heard it spoken among the old Taken. Then he translated. It was a memo to a castle kitchen about a meal to be prepared for visiting notables. I went over it painstakingly. His translation was faultless. Better than I could do. A third of the words evaded me.

"Well. Welcome to the team. I'll tell Darling." I slipped out, exchanging a puzzled glance with One-Eye behind Tracker's back.

Stranger and stranger. What was this man? Besides weird. At first encounter he reminded me of Raven, and fit the role. When I came to think of him as big, slow, and clumsy, he fit that role. Was he a reflection of the image in his beholder?

A good fighter, though, bless him. Worth ten of anyone else we have.

Chapter Twenty-Three:
THE PLAIN OF FEAR

 

It was the time of the Monthly Meeting. The big confab during which nothing gets done. During which all heads yammer of pet projects on which action cannot be taken. After six or eight hours of which Darling closes debate by telling us what to do.

The usual charts were up. One showed where our agents believed the Taken to be. Another showed incursions reported by the menhirs. Both showed a lot of white, areas of Plain unknown to us. A third chart showed the month's change storms, a pet project of the Lieutenant's. He was looking for something. As always, most were along the periphery. But there was an unusually large number, and higher than normal percentage, in this chart's interior. Seasonal? A genuine shift? Who knew? We had not been watching long enough. The menhirs will not bother explaining such trivia.

Darling took charge immediately. She signed, "The operation in Rust had the effect I hoped. Our agents have reported anti-imperial outbreaks almost everywhere. They have diverted some attention from us. But the armies of the Taken keep building. Whisper has become especially aggressive in her incursions."

Imperial troops entered the Plain almost every day, probing for a response and preparing their men for the Plain's perils. Whisper's operations, as always, were very professional. Militarily, she is to be feared far more than the Limper.

Limper is a loser. That is not his fault, entirely, but the stigma has attached itself. Winner or loser, though, he is running the other side.

"Word came this morning that Whisper has established a garrison a day's march inside the boundary. She is erecting fortifications, daring our response."

Her strategy was apparent. Establish a network of mutually supporting fortresses; build it slowly until it is spread out over the Plain. She was dangerous, that woman. Especially if she sold the idea to the Limper and got all the armies into the act.

As a strategy it goes back to the dawn of time, having been used again and again where regular armies face partisans in wild country. It is a patient strategy that depends on the will of the conqueror to persevere. It works where that will exists and fails where it does not.

Here it will work. The enemy has twenty-some years to root us out. And feels no need to hold the Plain once done with us.

Us? Let us say, instead, Darling. The rest of us are nothing in the equation. If Darling falls, there is no Rebellion.

"They are taking away time," Darling signed. "We need decades. We have to do something."

Here it comes, I thought. She had on that look. She was going to announce the result of much soul-searching. So I was not struck down with astonishment when she signed, "I am sending Croaker to recover the rest of his correspondent's story." News of the letters had spread. Darling will gossip. "Goblin and One-Eye will accompany and support him."

"What? There ain't no way…"

"Croaker."

"I won't do it. Look at me. I'm a nothing guy. Who's going to notice me? One old guy wandering around. The world is full of them. But three guys? One of them black? One of them a runt with…"

Goblin and One-Eye sped me milk-curdling looks.

I snickered. My outburst put them in a tight place. Though they wanted to go no more than I wanted them along, they now dared not agree with me publicly. Worse, they had to agree with each other. Ego!

But my point remained. Goblin and One-Eye are known characters. For that matter, so am I, but as I pointed out, I'm not physically remarkable.

Darling signed, "Danger will encourage their cooperation."

I fled to my last citadel. "The Lady touched me on the desert that night I was out, Darling. She is watching for me."

Darling thought a moment, signed back, "That changes nothing. We must have that last piece of story before the Taken close in."

She was right about that. But…

She signed, "You three will go. Be careful."

Tracker followed the debate with Otto's help. He offered, "I'll go. I know the north. Especially the Great Forest. That's where I got my name." Behind him, Toadkiller Dog yawned.

"Croaker?" Darling asked.

I was not yet resigned to going. So I passed it back to her. "Up to you."

"You could use a fighter," she signed. "Tell him you accept."

I mumbled and muttered, faced Tracker. "She says you go."

He looked pleased.

As far as Darling was concerned, that was that. The thing was settled. They hastened down the agenda to a report from Corder suggesting Tanner was ripe for a raid like that on Rust.

I fussed and fumed and no one paid me any mind, except Goblin and One-Eye, who sent me looks saying I would rue my insults.

No fooling around. We left fourteen hours later. With everything arranged for us. Dragged out of bed soon after midnight, I quickly found myself topside, beside the coral, watching a small windwhale descend. A menhir yammered behind me, instructing me in the care and stroking of the windwhale ego. I ignored him. This had come on too swiftly. I was being shoved into the saddle before I'd made up my mind to go. I was living behind events.

I had my weapons, my amulets, money, food. Everything I should need. Likewise Goblin and One-Eye, who had provided themselves with a supplementary arsenal of thaumatur-gic gewgaws. The plan was to purchase a wagon and team after the windwhale dropped us behind enemy lines. All the junk they were bringing, I grumbled, we might need two.

Tracker traveled light, though. Food, an array of weapons selected from what we had on hand, and his mutt.

The windwhale rose. Night enveloped us. I felt lost. I hadn't gotten so much as a good-bye hug.

The windwhale went up where the air was chill and thin. To the east, the south, and northwest I spied the glimmer of change storms. They were becoming more common.

I guess I was getting blase about windwhale-riding. Shivering, huddling into myself, ignoring Tracker, who was a positive chatterbox yammering about trivia, I fell asleep. I wakened to a shaking hand and Tracker's face inches from mine.

"Wake up, Croaker," he kept saying. "Wake up. One-Eye says we got trouble."

I rose, expecting to find Taken circling us.

We were surrounded, but by four windwhales and a score of mantas. "Where did they come from?"

"Showed up while you were sleeping."

"What's the trouble?"

Tracker pointed, off what I guess you would call our starboard bow.

Change storm. Shaping.

"Just popped out of nowhere," Goblin said, joining us. too nervous to remember he was mad at me. "Looks like a bad one, too, the rate it's growing."

The change storm was no more than four hundred yards in diameter now, but the pastel-Iightninged fury in its heart said it would grow swiftly and terribly. Its touch would be more than normally dramatic. Varicolored light painted faces and windwhales bizarrely. Our convoy shifted course. The windwhales are not as much affected as humans, but they prefer to dodge trouble where possible. It was clear, though, that fringes of the monster would brush us.

Even as I recognized and thought about it, the storm's size increased. Six hundred yards in diameter. Eight hundred. Roiling, boiling color within what looked like black smoke. Serpents of silent lightning snapped and snarled soundlessly around one another.

The bottom of the change storm touched ground.

All those lightnings found their voices. And the storm expanded even more rapidly, hurling in another direction that growth which should have gone earthward. It was terrible with energy, this one.

Change storms seldom came nearer than eight miles to the Hole. They are impressive enough from that distance, when you catch only a whiff that crackles in your hair and makes your nerves go frazzled. In olden times, when we still served the Lady, I talked to veterans of Whisper's campaigns who told me of suffering through the storms. I never wholly credited their tales.

I did so as the boundary of the storm gained on us.

One of the manias was caught. You could see through it, its bones white against sudden darkness. Then it changed.

Everything changed. Rocks and trees became protean. Small things that followed and pestered us shifted form…

There is a hypothesis which states that the strange species of the Plain have appeared as a result of change storms. It has been proposed, too, that the change storms are responsible for the Plain itself. That each gnaws a bit more off our normal world.

The whales gave up trying to outrun the storm and plunged earthward, below the curve of expanding storm, getting down where the fall would be shorter if they changed into something unable to fly. Standard procedure for anyone caught in a change storm. Stay low and don't move.

Whisper's veterans spoke of lizards growing to elephant size, of spiders becoming monstrous, of poisonous serpents sprouting wings, of intelligent creatures going mad and trying to murder everything about them.

I was scared.

Not too scared to observe, though. After the manta showed us its bones it resumed its normal form, but grew. As did a second when the boundary overtook it. Did that mean a common tendency toward growth on a storm's outward pulse?

The storm caught our windwhale, which was the slowest getting down. Young it was, but conscientious about its burden. The crackle in my hair peaked. I thought my nerves would betray me completely. A glance at Tracker convinced me we were going to have a major case of panic.

Goblin or One-Eye, one, decided to be a hero and stay the storm. Might as well have ordered the sea to turn. The crash and roar of a major sorcery vanished in the rage of the storm.

There was an instant of utter stillness when the boundary reached me. Then a roar out of hell. The winds inside were ferocious. I thought of nothing but getting down and hanging on. Around me gear was flying about, changing shape as it flew. Then I spied Goblin. And nearly threw up.

Goblin indeed. His head had swelled ten times normal size. The rest of him looked inside out. Around him swarmed a horde of the parasites that live on a windwhale's back, some as big as pigeons.

Tracker and Toadkiller Dog were worse. The mutt had become something half as big as an elephant, fanged, possessed of the most evil eyes I've ever seen. He looked at me with a starved lust that chilled my soul. And Tracker had become something demonic, vaguely apelike yet certainly much more. Both looked like creatures from an artist's or sorcerer's nightmares.

One-Eye was the least changed. He swelled, but remained One-Eye. Perhaps he is well-rooted in the world, being so damned old. Near as I can tell, he is pushing a hundred fifty.

The thing that was Toadkiller Dog crept toward me with teeth bared… The windwhale touched down. Impact sent everyone tumbling. The wind screamed around us. The strange lightning hammered earth and air. The landing area itself was in a protean mood. Rocks crawled. Trees changed shape. The animals of that part of the Plain were out and gamboling in revised forms, one-time prey turning upon predator. The horror show was illuminated by a shifting, sometimes ghastly light.

Then the vacuum at the heart of the storm enveloped us. Everything froze in the form it had at the last instant. Nothing moved. Tracker and Toadkiller Dog were down on the ground, thrown there after impact. One-Eye and Goblin faced one another, in the first phase of letting their feud go beyond its customary gamesmanship. The other windwhales lay nearby, not visibly affected. A manta plunged out of the color above, crashed.

That stasis lasted maybe three minutes. In the stillness sanity returned. Then the change storm began to collapse.

The devolution of the storm was slower than its growth. But saner, too. We suffered it for several hours. And then it was done. And our sole casualty was the one manta that had crashed. But damn, was it ever a shaking experience.

"Damn lucky," I told the others, as we inventoried our possessions. "Lucky we weren't all killed."

"No luck to it, Croaker," One-Eye replied. "The moment these monsters saw a storm coming they headed for safe ground. A place where there would be nothing that could kill us. Or them."

Goblin nodded. They were doing a lot of agreeing lately. But we all recalled how close they had come to murder.

I asked, "What did I look like? I didn't feel any change, except a sort of nervous turmoil. Like being drunk, drugged, and half-crazy all at the same time."

"Looked like Croaker to me," One-Eye said. "Only twice as ugly."

"And dull," Goblin added. "You made the most inspiring speech about the glories the Black Company won during the campaign against Chew."

I laughed. "Come on."

"Really. You were just Croaker. Maybe those amulets are good for something."

Tracker was going over his weaponry. Toadkiller Dog was napping near his feet. I pointed. One-Eye signed, "Didn't see."

Goblin signed, "He grew up and got claws."

They did not seem concerned. I decided I should not be. After all, the whale lice were the nastiest thing after the mutt.

The windwhales remained grounded, for the sun was rising. Their backs assumed the dun color of the earth, complete with sage-colored patches, and we waited for the night. The mantas nested down on the other four whales. None came near us. You get the feeling humans make them uncomfortable.

Chapter Twenty-Four:
THE WIDE WORLD

 

They never tell me anything. But I should complain? Secrecy is our armor. Need to know. All that crap. In our outfit it is the iron rule of survival.

Our escort was not along just to help us break out of the Plain of Fear. They had their own mission. What I had not been told was that Whisper's headquarters was to be attacked.

Whisper had no warning. Our companion windwhales dropped away slowly as the edge of the Plain approached. Their mantas dropped with them. They caught favorable winds and pulled ahead. We climbed higher, into the pure shivers and gasp for breaths.

The mantas struck first. In twos and threes they crossed the town at treelop level, loosing their bolts into Whisper's quarters. Rock and timbers flew like the dust around slamping hooves. Fires broke out.

The monsters of the upper air rolled in behind as soldiers and civilians hit the streets. They unleashed bolls of their own. But the real horror was their tentacles.

The windwhales gorged upon men and animals. They ripped houses and fortifications apart. They yanked trees out by their roots. And they pounded away at Whisper with their bolls.

The mantas, meantime, rose a thousand feet and plunged again, in their pairs and threes, this time to slrike at Whisper as she responded.

Her response, though it did set a broad patch of one windwhale's flank gruesomely aglow, pinpointed her for the mantas. They slapped her around good, though she did bring one down.

We passed over, the flash and fires illuminating our monster's belly. If anyone in the crucible spotted us, I doubt they guessed we were going on. Goblin and One-Eye detected no interest in anything but survival.

It continued as we lost sight of the town. Goblin said they had Whisper on the run, too busy saving her own ass to help her men.

"Glad they never pulled any of this crap on us," I said.

"It's a one-shot," Goblin countered. "Next time they'll be ready."

"I'd have thought they'd be now, because of Rust."

"Maybe Whisper has an ego problem."

No maybe about it. I had dealt with her. It was her weak spot. She would have made no preparations because she believed we feared her too much. She was, after all, the most brilliant of the Taken.

Our mighty steed ploughed the night, back brushing the stars, body gurgling, chugging, humming. I began to feel optimistic.

At dawn we dropped into a canyon in the Windy Country, another big desert. Unlike the Plain, though, it is normal. A big emptiness where the wind blows all the time. We ate and slept. When night fell we resumed our journey.

We left the desert south of Lords, turned north over the Forest of Cloud, avoiding settlements. Beyond the Forest of Cloud, though, the windwhale descended. And we were on our own.

I wish we could have gone the whole way airborne. But that was as far as Darling and the windwhales were willing to risk. Beyond lay heavily inhabited country. We could not hope to come down and pass the daylight hours unseen. So from there on we would travel the old-fashioned way.

The free city of Roses was about fifteen miles away.

Roses has been free throughout history, a republican plutocracy. Even the Lady did not see fit to buck tradition. One huge battle took place nearby, during the northern campaigns, but the site was of Rebel choosing, not ours. We lost. For several months Roses lost its independence. Then the Lady's victory at Charm ended Rebel dominion. All in all, though unaligned, Roses is a friend of the Lady.

Crafty bitch.

We hiked. Our journey was an all-day affair. Neither I nor Goblin nor One-Eye were in good shape. Too much loafing. Getting too old.

"This isn't smart," I said as we approached a gate in Roses' pale red walls, toward sunset. "We've all been here before. You two should be well-remembered, what with having robbed half the citizens."

"Robbed?" One-Eye protested. "Who robbed?…"

"Both of you clowns. Selling those damned guaranteed-to-work amulets when we were after Raker."

Raker was a one-time Rebel general. He had beaten the crap out of the Limper farther north; then the Company, with a little help from Soulcatcher, had sucked him into a trap in Roses. Both Goblin and One-Eye had preyed on the populace. One-Eye was an old hand at that. Back when we were in the south, beyond the Sea of Torments, he had been involved in every shady scheme he could find. Most of his ill-gotten gains he soon lost at cards. He is the world's worst cardplayer.

You'd think by one-fifty he would learn to count them.

The plan was for us to lay up at some sleazy no-questions-asked inn. Tracker and I would go out next day and buy a wagon and team. Then we would head out the way we had come, pick up what gear we had been unable to carry, and circle the city by heading north.

That was the plan. Goblin and One-Eye did not stick to it.

Rule Number One for a soldier: Stick to the mission. The mission is paramount.

For Goblin and One-Eye all rules are made to be broken. When Tracker and I returned, with Toadkiller Dog loafing along behind, it was late afternoon. We parked. Tracker stood by while I went upstairs.

No Goblin. No One-Eye.

The proprietor told me they had left soon after I had, chattering about finding some women.

My fault. I was in charge. I should have foreseen it. It had been a long, long, long time. I paid for another two nights, just in case. Then I turned animals and wagon over to the holster's boy, had supper with a silent Tracker, and retreated to our room with several quarts of beer. We shared it, Tracker, me, and Toadkiller Dog.

"You going looking for them?" Tracker asked.

"No. If they haven't come back in two days or pulled the roof in on us, we'll go ahead without them. I don't want to be seen around them. There'll be people here who remember them."

We got pleasantly buzzed. Toadkiller Dog seemed capable of drinking people under the table. Loved his beer, that dog. Actually got up and moved around when he didn't have to.

Next morning, no Goblin. No One-Eye. But plenty of rumors. We entered the common room late, after the morning crowd and before the noontime rush. The hostler had no other ears to bend.

"You guys hear about the ruckus over in the east end last night?"

I groaned before he got to the meat of it. I knew.

"Yeah. Regular wahoo war party. Fires. Sorcery. Lynch mob. Excitement like this old town hain't seen since that time they were after that General What's-it the Lady wanted."

After he went to pester another customer, I told Tracker, "We'd better get out now."

"What about Goblin and One-Eye?"

"They can take care of themselves. If they got themselves lynched, tough. I'm not going poking around and getting myself a stretched neck, too. If they got away, they, know the plan. They can catch up."

"I thought the Black Company didn't leave its dead behind."

"We don't." I said it, but maintained my determination to let the wizards stew in what juice they had concocted. I did not doubt that they had survived. They had been in trouble before, a thousand times. A good hike might have a salutary effect on their feel for mission discipline.

Meal finished, I informed the proprietor that Tracker and I were departing, but that our companions would keep the room. Then I led a protesting Tracker to the wagon, put him aboard, and when the boy had the hitch ready, headed for the western gate.

It was the long way, through tortuous streets, over a dozen arched bridges spanning canals, but it led away from yesterday's silliness. As we went I told Tracker how we had tricked Raker into a noose. He appreciated it.

"That was the Company's trademark," I concluded. "Get the enemy to do something stupid. We were the best when it came to fighting, but we only fought when nothing else worked."

"But you were paid to fight." Things were black-and-white to Tracker. Sometimes I thought he had spent too much time in the woods.

"We were paid for results. If we could do the job without fighting, all the better. What you do is, you study your enemy. Find a weakness, then work on it. Darling is good at that. Though working on the Taken is easier than you would think. They're all vulnerable through their egos."

"What about the Lady?"

"I couldn't say. She doesn't seem to have a handle. A touch of vanity, but I don't see how to get hold of it. Maybe through her drive to dominate. By getting her to overextend herself. I don't know. She's cautious. And smart. Like when she sucked the Rebel in at Charm. Killed three birds with one stone. Not only did she eliminate the Rebel; she exposed the unreliable among the Taken and squashed the Dominator's attempt to use them to get free."

"What about him?"

"He isn't a problem. He's probably more vulnerable than the Lady, though. He don't seem to think. He's like a bull. So damned strong that's all he needs. Oh, a little guile, like at Juniper, but mostly just the hammer-strokes type."

Tracker nodded thoughtfully. "Could be something to what you say."

Chapter Twenty-Five:
THE BARROWLAND

 

Corbie miscalculated. He forgot that others beside Case were interested in his fate.

When he failed to show for work various places, people came looking for him. They pounded on doors, tapped on windows, and got no response. One tried the door. It was locked. Now there was genuine concern.

Some argued for kicking a break-in up the chain of command, others for moving now. The latter view prevailed. They broke the lock and spread out inside.

They found a place obsessive in its neatness, spartan in its furnishings. The first man upstairs yelped, "Here he is. He's had a stroke or something."

The pack crowded into the little upstairs room. Corbie sat at a table on which lay an oilskin packet and a book. "A book!" someone said. "He was weirder than we thought."

A man touched Corbie's throat, felt a feeble pulse, noted that Corbie was taking shallow breaths spaced far more widely than those of a man sleeping. "Guess he did have a stroke. Like he was sitting here reading and it hit him."

"Had an uncle went like that," someone said. "When I was a kid. Telling us a story and just went white and keeled over."

"He's still alive. We better do something. Maybe he'll be all right."

A big rush downstairs, men tumbling over men.

Case heard when the group rushed into headquarters. He was on duty. The news put him in a quandary. He had promised Corbie… But he could not run off.

Sweet's personal interest got the news bucked up the ladder fast. The Colonel came out of his office. He noted Case looking stricken. "You heard. Come along. Let's have a look. You men. Find the barber. Find the vet."

Made you reflect on the value of men when the army provided a vet but not a physician.

The day had begun auspiciously, with a clear sky. That was rare. Now it was cloudy. A few raindrops fell, spotting the wooden walks. As Case followed Sweet, and a dozen men followed him, he barely noted the Colonel's remarks about necessary improvements.

A crowd surrounded Corbie's place. "Bad news travels fast," Case said. "Sir."

"Doesn't it? Make a hole here, men. Coming through." He paused inside. "He always this tidy?"

"Yes, sir. He was obsessive about order and doing things by the numbers."

"I wondered. He stretched the rules a bit with his night walks."

Case gnawed his lip and wondered if he ought to give the Colonel Corbie's message. He decided it was not yet time.

"Upstairs?" the Colonel asked one of the men who had found Corbie.

"Yes, sir."

Case was up the stairs already. He spied Corbie's oilskin packet, without thinking started to slide it inside his jacket.

"Son."

Case turned. Sweet stood in the doorway, frowning.

"What are you doing?"

The Colonel was the most intimidating figure Case could imagine. More so than his father, who had been a harsh and exacting man. He did not know how to respond. He stood there shaking.

The Colonel extended a hand. Case handed the packet over. "What were you doing, son?"

"Uh… Sir… One day…"

"Well?" Sweet examined Corbie without touching him. "Well? Out with it."

"He asked me to deliver a letter for him if anything happened to him. Like he thought his time was running out.

He said it would be in an oilskin packet. On account of the rain and everything. Sir."

"I see." The Colonel slipped fingers under Corbie's chin, lifted. He returned the packet to the table, peeled back one of Corbie's eyelids. The pupil revealed was a pinprick. "Hmm." He felt Corbie's forehead. "Hmm." He flicked several reflex points with his finger or fist. Corbie did not respond. "Curious. Doesn't look like a stroke."

"What else could it be, sir?"

Colonel Sweet straightened. "Maybe you'd know better than I."

"Sir?"

"You say Corbie expected something."

"Not exactly. He was afraid something would happen. Talked like he was getting old and his time was running out. Maybe he had something wrong he never told nobody about."

"Maybe. Ah. Holts." The horse doctor had arrived. He followed the course the Colonel had, straightened, shrugged.

"Beyond me, Colonel."

"We'd better move him where we can keep an eye on him. Your job, son," he told Case. "If he doesn't come out of it soon, we'll have to force-feed him." He poked around the room, checked the titles of the dozen or so books. "A learned man, Corbie. I thought so. A study in contrasts. I've often wondered what he really was."

Case was nervous for Corbie now. "Sir, I think that way back he was somebody in one of the Jewel Cities, but his luck turned and he joined the army."

"We'll talk about it after we move him. Come along."

Case followed. The Colonel seemed very thoughtful. Maybe he should give him Corbie's message.

Chapter Twenty-Six:
ON THE ROAD

 

After three days during which Tracker and I returned to our landing place, loaded the wagon, then headed north on the Salient Road, I began to wonder if I had not erred. Still no Goblin or One-Eye.

I need not have been concerned. They caught up near Meystrikt, a fortress in the Salient the Company once held on behalf of the Lady. We were off the road, in some woods, getting ready for supper. We heard a ruckus on the road.

A voice undeniably Goblin's shouted, "And I insist it's your fault, you maggot-lipped excuse for fish bait. I'd turn your brain into pudding for getting me into it if you had one."

"My fault. My fault. Gods! He even lies to himself. I had to talk him into his own idea? Look there, guano breath. Meystrikt is around that hill. They'll remember us even better than they did in Roses. Now I'm going to ask you once. How do we get through without getting our throats cut?"

After an initial relief I halted my rush toward the road. I told Tracker, "They're riding. Where do you suppose they got horses?" I tried finding a bright side. "Maybe they got into a game and got away with cheating. If One-Eye let Goblin do it." One-Eye is as inept at cheating as at games of chance themselves. There are times I think he has a positive death wish.

"You and your damned amulet," Goblin squeaked. "The Lady can't find him. That's great. But neither can we."

"My amulet? My amulet? Who the hell gave it to him in the first place?"

"Who designed the spell that's on it now?"

"Who cast it? Tell me that, toad face. Tell me that."

I moved to the edge of the woods. They had passed already. Tracker joined me. Even Toadkiller Dog came to watch.

"Freeze. Rebel!" I shouted. "First one moves is dead meat."

Stupid, Croaker. Real stupid. Their response was swift and gaudy. It damned near killed me.

They vanished in shining clouds. Around Tracker and me insects erupted. More kinds of bugs than I imagined existed, every one interested only in having me for supper.

Toadkiller Dog snarled and snapped.

"Knock it off, you clowns," I yelled. "It's me. Croaker."

"Who's Croaker?" One-Eye asked Goblin. "You know anybody named Croaker?"

"Yeah. But I don't think we ought to stop," Goblin replied, after sticking his head out of the shining to check. "He deserves it."

"Sure," One-Eye agreed. "But Tracker is innocent. I can't fine-tune it enough to get just Croaker."

The bugs returned to routine bug business. Eating each other, I guess. I constrained my anger and greeted One-Eye and Goblin, both of whom had donned expressions of innocence and contrition. "What you got to say for yourselves, guys? Nice horses. Think the people they belong to will come looking for them?"

"Wait up," Goblin squawked. "Don't go accusing us of. . ."

"I know you guys. Get down off those animals and come eat. We'll decide what to do with them tomorrow."

I turned my back on them. Tracker had returned to our cook fire already. He dished up supper. I went to work on it, my temper still frayed. Stupid move, stealing horses. What with the uproar they had caused already… The Lady has agents everywhere. We may not be enemies of the grand sort, but we are what she has. Someone was bound to conclude that the Black Company was back in the north.

I fell asleep contemplating turning back. The least likely direction for hunters to look would be on the route to the Plain of Fear. But I could not give the order. Too much depended on us. Though now my earlier optimism stood in serious jeopardy.

Damned irresponsible clowns.

Way back down the line the Captain, who perished at Juniper, must have felt the same. We all gave him cause.

I braced for a golden dream. I slept restlessly. No dream came. Next morning I packed Goblin and One-Eye into the wagon, beneath all the clutter we deemed necessary for our expedition, abandoned the horses, and took the wagon past Meystrikt. Toadkiller Dog ran point. Tracker strolled along beside. I drove. Under the tucker, Goblin and One-Eye sputtered and grumbled. The garrison at the fort merely asked where we were bound, in such a bored manner I knew they did not care.

These lands had been tamed since last I passed through. This garrison could not conceive of trouble lifting its naughty head.

Relieved, I turned up the road that led to Elm and Oar. And to the Great Forest beyond.

Chapter Twenty-Seven:
OAR

 

"Don't this weather ever let up?" One-Eye whined. For a week we had slogged northward, had been victimized by daily showers. The roads were bad and promised to get worse. Practicing my Forsbergeron wayside farmers, I learned that this weather had been common for years. It made getting crops to town difficult and, worse, left the grains at risk from disease. There had been an outbreak of the firedance in Oar already, a malady traceable to infected rye. There were a lot of insects, too. Especially mosquitos.

The winters, though abnormal in snow and rainfall, were milder than when we had been stationed here. Mild winters do not augur well for pest control. On the other hand, game species were diminished because they could not forage in the deep snows.

Cycles. Just cycles, the old-timers assured me. The bad winters come around after the Great Comet passes. But even they thought this a cycle among cycles.

Today's weather is already the most impressive of all time.

"Deal," Goblin said, and he did not mean cards. That fortress, which the Company took from the Rebel years ago, loomed ahead. The road meanders beneath its scowling walls. I was troubled, as always I was when our path neared an imperial bastion. But there was no need this time. The Lady was so confident of Forsberg that the great fortress stood abandoned. In fact, close up, it looked ragged. Its neighbors were stealing it piece by piece, after the custom of peasants the world over. I expect that is the only return they get on taxes, though they may have to wait generations for the worm to turn.

"Oar tomorrow," I said as we left the wagon outside an inn a few miles past Deal. "And this time there will be no screwups. Hear?"

One-Eye had the grace to look abashed. But Goblin was ready to argue.

"Keep it up," I said. "I'll have Tracker thrash you and tie you up. We aren't playing games."

"Life is a game, Croaker," One-Eye said. "You take it too damned serious." But he behaved himself, both that night and the next day when we entered Oar.

I found a place well outside areas we frequented before. It catered to small-time traders and travelers. We drew no especial attention. Tracker and I kept a watch on Goblin and One-Eye. They did not seem inclined to play the fool again, though.

Next day I went looking for a smith named Sand. Tracker accompanied me. Goblin and One-Eye stayed behind, constrained by the most terrible threats I could invent.

Sand's place was easily found. He was a longtime member of his trade, well-known among his peers. We followed directions. They led me through familiar streets. Here the Company had had some adventures.

I discussed them with Tracker as we walked. I noted, "Been a lot of rebuilding since then. We tore the place up good."

Toadkiller Dog was on point, as often he was of late. He stopped suddenly, looked around suspiciously, took a few tentative steps, sank onto his belly. "Trouble," Tracker said.

"What kind?" There was nothing obvious to the eye.

"I don't know. He can't talk. He's just doing his watch-out-for-trouble act."

"Okay. Don't cost anything to be careful." We turned into a place that sold and repaired harness and tack. Tracker yakked about needing a saddle for a hunter of large beasts. I stood in the doorway watching the street.

I saw nothing unusual. The normal run of people went about their normal business. But after a while I noted that Sand's smithy had no custom. That no smithery sounds came forth. He was supposed to supervise a platoon of apprentices and journeymen.

"Hey. Proprietor. Whatever happened to the smith over there? Last time we were here he did us some work. Place looks empty."

"Grey boys is what happened." He looked uncomfortable. Grey boys are imperials. The troops in the north wear grey. "Fool didn't learn back when. Was into the Rebellion."

"Too bad. He was a good smith. What leads regular folks to get into politics, anyway? People like us, we got trouble enough just trying to make a living."

"I heard that, brother." The tackmaker shook his head. "Tell you this. You got smithery needs doing, take your custom elsewhere. The grey boys been hanging around, taking anybody who comes around."

About then an imperial strolled around the side of the smithy and crossed to a pasty stall. "Damned clumsy," I said. "And crude."

The tackmaker looked at me askance. Tracker covered well, drawing him back to business. Not as dumb as he appeared, I noted. Maybe just not socially adept.

Later, after Tracker expressed a desire to think on the deal the tackmaker offered and we departed, Tracker asked, "What now?"

"We could bring up Goblin and One-Eye after dark, use their sleeping spell, go in and see what's to see. But it don't seem likely the imperials would leave anything interesting. We could find out what they did with Sand and try to reach him. Or we could go on to the Barrowland."

"Sounds the safest."

"On the other hand, we wouldn't know what we were headed into. Sand's being taken could mean anything. We better talk it over with the others. Catalog our resources."

Tracker grunted. "How long before that sutler gets suspicious? The more he thinks about it, the more he's going to realize we were interested in the smith."

"Maybe. I'm not going to sweat it."

Oar is a city like most of substantial size. Crowded, Filled with distractions. I understood how Goblin and One-Eye had been seduced by Roses. The last major city the Company dared visit was Chimney. Six years ago. Since then it has been all the hard times and small towns you can imagine. I battled temptations of my own. I knew places of interest in Oar.

Tracker kept me on the straight line. I've never met a man less interested in the traps which tempt men.

Goblin thought we should put the imperials to sleep, give them the question. One-Eye wanted to get out of town. Their solidarity had perished like frost in the sun.

"Logically," I said, "they would get a stronger guard after dark. But if we drag you down there now, somebody is sure to recognize you."

"Then find that old boy who brought the first letter," Goblin said.

"Good idea. But. Think about it. Assuming he had perfect luck, he'd still be a long way from here. He didn't catch a ride like we did. No go. We get out. Oar is making me nervous." Too many temptations, too many chances to be recognized. And just too many people. Isolation had grown on me out there on the Plain.

Goblin wanted to argue. He had heard the north roads were terrible.

"I know," I countered. "I also know the army is building a new route to the Barrowland. And they've pushed its north end far enough so traders are using it."

No more argument. They wanted out as much as I. Only Tracker now seemed reluctant. He who first thought it best to go.

Chapter Twenty-Eight:
TO THE BARROWLAND

 

Oar's weather was less than exciting. Farther north it became misery curdled, though the imperial engineers had done their best to make the forest road usable. Much of it was corduroy, of logs trimmed and tarred and laid side by side. In areas where snow became obnoxious, there were frameworks to support canvas coverings.

"Amazing scope." One-Eye said.

"Uhm." There was supposed to be zero concern about the Dominator since the Lady's triumph at Juniper. This seemed a lot of effort to keep a road open.

The new road swung many miles west of the old because the Great Tragic River had shifted its bed and continued doing so. The trip from Oar to the Barrowland was fifteen miles longer. The last forty-five were not wholly finished. We endured some rough going.

We encountered the occasional trader headed south. They all shook their heads and told us we were wasting our time. The fortunes to be had had evaporated. The tribes had hunted the furbearers to extinction.

Tracker had been preoccupied since we left Oar. I could not draw out why. Maybe superstition. The Barrowland remains a great dread to Forsberg's lower classes. The Dominator is the bogeyman mothers conjure to frighten children. Though he has been gone four hundred years, his stamp remains indelible.

It took a week to cover the final forty-five miles. I was growing time-concerned. We might not get done and home before winter.

We were scarcely out of the forest, into the clearing at the Barrowland. I stopped. "It's changed."

Goblin and One-Eye crept up behind me. "Yuck," Goblin squeaked. "It sure has."

It seemed almost abandoned. A swamp now, with only the highest points of the Barrowland proper still identifiable. When last we visited, a horde of imperials was clearing, repairing, studying with a relentless clatter and bustle.

Near silence reigned. That bothered me more than the decayed state of the Barrowland. Slow, steady drizzle under deep grey skies. Cold. And no sound.

The corduroy was completed here. We rolled forward. Not till we entered the town, buildings now for the most part paintless and dilapidated, did we see a soul. A voice called, "Halt and state your business."

I stopped. "Where are you?"

Toadkiller Dog, more than normally ambitious, loped to a derelict structure and sniffed. A grumbling Guard stepped into the drizzle. "Here."

"Oh. You startled me. Name is Candle. Of Candle, Smith, Smith, Tailor, and Sons. Traders."

"Yeah? These others?"

"Smith and Tailor inside here. That's Tracker. He works for us. We're from Roses. We heard the road north was open again."

"Now you know better." He chuckled. I learned that he was in a good humor because of the weather. It was a nice day for the Barrowland.

"What's the procedure?" I asked. "Where do we put up?"

"Blue Willy is the only place. They'll be glad for the custom. Get yourself settled. Report to headquarters by tomorrow." -

"Right. Where is the Blue Willy?"

He told me. I snapped the traces. The wagon rolled. "Seem pretty lax," I said.

"Where are you going to run?" One-Eye countered. "They know we're here. There's only one way out. We don't play by their book, they stick the stopper in the bottle."

The place did have that feel.

It also had a feel that went with its weather. Down. Depressing. Smiles were scarce, and those mostly commercial.

The hostler at Blue Willy didn't ask names, just payment up front. Other traders ignored us, though the fur trade, traditionally, is an Oar monopoly.

Next day a few locals came around to examine our goods. I had loaded up with what I had heard would sell well, but we got few nibbles. Only the liquor drew any offers. I asked how to get in touch with the tribes.

"You wait. They come when they come."

That done, I went to Guard headquarters. It was unchanged, though the surrounding compound seemed seedier.

The first man I encountered was one I remembered. He was the one with whom I had to do business. "Candle's the name," I said. "Of Candle, Smith, Smith, Tailor, and Sons, out of Roses. Traders. I was told to report here."

He looked at me oddly, like something way back was nagging him. He remembered something. I did not want him worrying it like a cavity in a tooth. He might come up with an answer. "Been some changes since I was here in the army."

"Going to the dogs," he grumbled. "The dogs. Worse every day. You think anybody cares? We're going to rot out here. How many in your party?"

"Four. And one dog."

Wrong move. He scowled. No sense of humor. "Names?"

"Candle. One Smith. Tailor. Tracker. He works for us. And Toadkiller Dog. Got to call him by his whole name or he gets upset."

"Funny man, eh?"

"Hey. No offense. But this place needs some sunshine."

"Yeah. Can you read?"

I nodded.

"Rules are posted over there. You got two choices. Obey them. Or be dead. Case!"

A soldier came from a back office. "Yeah, Sarge?" "New trader. Go check him out. You at Blue Willy, Candle?"

"Yes." The list of rules had not changed. It was the same paper, almost too faded to read. Basically, it said don't mess with the Barrowland. Try it and if it don't kill you, we will. "Sir?" the trooper said. "When you're ready?" "I'm ready."

We returned to Blue Willy. The soldier looked our gear over. The only things that intrigued him were my bow and the fact that we were well armed. "Why so many weapons?" "Been talk about trouble with the tribesmen." "Must have gotten exaggerated. Just stealing." Goblin and One-Eye attracted no special attention. I was pleased. "You read the rules. Stick to them."

"I know them of old," I said. "I was stationed here when I was in the army."

He looked at me a bit narrowly, nodded, departed. We all sighed. Goblin took the spell of concealment off the gear he and One-Eye had brought. The empty corner behind Tracker filled with clutter.

"He might come right back," I protested. "We don't want to hold any spell any longer than we have to," One-Eye said. "There might be somebody around who could detect it."

"Right." I cracked the shutters to our one window. The hinges shrieked. "Grease," I suggested. I looked across the town. We were on the third floor of the tallest building outside the Guard compound. I could see the Bomanz house. "Guys. Look at this." They looked. "In damned fine shape, eh?" When last seen it was a candidate for demolition. Superstitious fear had kept it unused. I recalled pottering around in there several times. "Feel like a stroll, Tracker?"•

"Whatever makes you comfortable"-I wondered if he had enemies here-"I'd feel better if you were along."

He strapped on his sword. Out we went, down, into the street-if that expanse of mud could be so called. The corduroy ran only to the compound, with a branch as far as Blue Willy. Beyond, there were walkways only.

We pretended to sightsee. I told Tracker stories about my last visit, most cast near the truth. I was trying to assume a foreign persona, voluble and jolly. I wondered if I was wasting my time. I saw no one interested in what I might say.

The Bomanz house had been lovingly restored. It did not appear to be occupied, though. Or guarded. Or set up as a monument. Curious. Come supper I asked our host. He had me pegged as a nostalgic fool already. He told us, "Some old boy moved in there about five years ago. Cripple. Did scut work for the Guard. Fixed the place up in his spare time."

"What happened to him?"

"While back, couple four months I guess, he had a stroke or something. They found him still alive but like a vegetable. They took him over to the compound. Far as I know, he's still there. Feeding him like a baby. That kid that was here to inspect you is the one to ask. Him and Corbie was friends."

"Corbie, eh? Thanks. Another pitcher."

"Come on, Croaker," One-Eye said in a low voice. "Lay off the beer. The guy makes it himself. It's terrible."

He was right. But I was getting adjusted for some heavy thinking.

We had to get into that house. That meant night moves and wizards' skills. It also meant our greatest risks since Goblin and One-Eye went silly in Roses.

One-Eye asked Goblin, "Think we're up against a haunt?"

Goblin sucked his lip. "Have to look."

"What's this?" I asked.

"I'd have to see the man to know for sure, Croaker, but what happened to that Corbie don't sound like a stroke."

Goblin nodded. "Sounds like somebody pulled out of body and caught."

"Maybe we can arrange to see him. What about the house?"

"First thing is to make sure there isn't a big-time haunt. Like maybe Bomanz's ghost."

That kind of talk makes me nervous. I do not believe in ghosts. Or do not want to.

"If he was caught out, or pulled out, you have to wonder how and why. The fact that that's where Bomanz lived has to be considered. Something left over from his time could have gotten this Corbie. Could be what gets us if we're not careful."

"Complications," I grumbled. "Always the complications."

Goblin snickered.

"You watch yourself," I said. "Or I just might sell you to the highest bidder."

An hour later a savage storm arrived. It howled and hammered at the inn. The roof leaked under the downpour. When I reported that, our host blew up, though not at me. Evidently making repairs was not easy under current conditions, yet repairs had to be made lest a place deteriorate entirely.

"The damned winter firewood is the worst," he complained. "Can't leave it set out. Either gets buried under snow or so damned waterlogged you can't dry it out. In a month this place will be loaded ceiling to floor. At least filling the place up makes it less hard to heat."

Along about midnight, after the Guard had changed watches and the oncoming had had time to grow bored and sleepy, we slipped out. Goblin made sure everyone inside the inn was asleep.

Toadkiller Dog trotted ahead, seeking witnesses. He found only one. Goblin took care of him, too. On a night like that nobody was out. I wished I was not.

"Make sure nobody can see any light," I said after we slipped inside. "At a guess, I'd say we start upstairs."

"At a guess," One-Eye countered, "I'd say we find out if there are any haunts or booby traps first."

I glanced at the door. I hadn't thought about that before pushing through.