“The swamps would be a
very good place for them to die. Take care of it. You may impress
the one who rules them with the majesty and terror of my
Name.” He began to drift away.
The others stared hard. The anger in the place became
palpable.
The other ceased his drift. “You know what sleeps so
restlessly upon my southern border. I dare not relax my
vigilance.”
“Unless to stab another of us in the back. I note that the
threat becomes secondary whenever you care to try.”
“You have my pledge. Upon my Name. The peace will not be
broken by me while those who bring danger from the north survive.
You may speak of me as one with you when you extend your hands
beyond the shadows. I cannot, I dare not, give you more.” He
resumed his drift.
“So be it, then,” said the woman. The triangle
rearranged itself so as to exclude him. “He spoke one truth,
certainly. The swamps would be a very good place for them to die.
If Fate does not take them in hand sooner.”
One of the others began to chuckle. The shadows scurried about,
frantic, as growing laughter tormented them.
“A very good place for them to die.”
----
----
Chapter Eleven: A MARCH INTO YESTERYEAR
At first the names were echoes from my childhood. Kale. Fratter.
Grey. Weeks. Some the Company had served, some had been its foes.
The world changed and became warmer and the cities became more
scattered. Their names faded to legend and memories from the
Annals. Tire. Raxle. Slight. Nab and Nod. We passed beyond any map
I had ever seen, to cities known to me only through the Annals and
visited only by One-Eye previously. Boros. Teries. Viege.
Ha-jah.
And still we headed south, still making the first long leg of
our journey. Crows followed. We gathered another four recruits,
professional caravan guards from a nomad tribe called the roi, who
deserted to join us. I started a squad for Murgen. He was not
thrilled. He was content being standard bearer and had developed
hopes of taking over the Annalist’s chores from me because I
had so much to do as Captain and medic. I dared not discourage him.
The only alternative substitute was One-Eye. He was not
reliable.
And south some more, and still we were not back to
One-Eye’s origin, the jungles of D’loc Aloc.
One-Eye swore that never in his life, outside the Company, had
he heard the name Khatovar. It had to lie far beyond the waist of
the world.
There are limits to what frail flesh can endure.
Those long leagues were not easy. The black iron coach and
Lady’s wagon drew the eye of bandits and princes and princes
who were bandits. Most times Goblin and One-Eye bluffed us through.
The rest of the time we forced them to back down with a little
applied terror. There was one long stretch where the magic had gone
away.
If those two had learned anything during their years with the
Company, it was showmanship. When they conjured an illusion you
could smell its bad breath from seventy feet away.
I wished they would refrain from wasting that flash upon one
another.
I decided it was time we laid up for a few days. We needed to
regain our youthful bounce.
One-Eye suggested, “There’s a place down the road
called the Temple of Travellers’ Repose. They take in
wanderers. They have for two thousand years. It would be a good
place to lay up and do some research.”
“Research?”
“Two thousand years of travellers’ tales makes a
hell of a library, Croaker. And a tale is the only donative they
ever require.”
He had me. He grinned cockily. The old scoundrel knew me too
well. Nothing else could have stilled my determination to reach
Khatovar so thoroughly.
I passed the word. And gave One-Eye the fish-eye. “That
means you’re going to do some honest work.”
“What?”
“Who do you think is going to translate?”
He groaned and rolled his eye. “When am I going to learn
to keep my big damned mouth shut?”
The Temple was a lightly fortified monastery sprawled atop a low
hill. It looked golden
very good place for them to die. Take care of it. You may impress
the one who rules them with the majesty and terror of my
Name.” He began to drift away.
The others stared hard. The anger in the place became
palpable.
The other ceased his drift. “You know what sleeps so
restlessly upon my southern border. I dare not relax my
vigilance.”
“Unless to stab another of us in the back. I note that the
threat becomes secondary whenever you care to try.”
“You have my pledge. Upon my Name. The peace will not be
broken by me while those who bring danger from the north survive.
You may speak of me as one with you when you extend your hands
beyond the shadows. I cannot, I dare not, give you more.” He
resumed his drift.
“So be it, then,” said the woman. The triangle
rearranged itself so as to exclude him. “He spoke one truth,
certainly. The swamps would be a very good place for them to die.
If Fate does not take them in hand sooner.”
One of the others began to chuckle. The shadows scurried about,
frantic, as growing laughter tormented them.
“A very good place for them to die.”
----
----
Chapter Eleven: A MARCH INTO YESTERYEAR
At first the names were echoes from my childhood. Kale. Fratter.
Grey. Weeks. Some the Company had served, some had been its foes.
The world changed and became warmer and the cities became more
scattered. Their names faded to legend and memories from the
Annals. Tire. Raxle. Slight. Nab and Nod. We passed beyond any map
I had ever seen, to cities known to me only through the Annals and
visited only by One-Eye previously. Boros. Teries. Viege.
Ha-jah.
And still we headed south, still making the first long leg of
our journey. Crows followed. We gathered another four recruits,
professional caravan guards from a nomad tribe called the roi, who
deserted to join us. I started a squad for Murgen. He was not
thrilled. He was content being standard bearer and had developed
hopes of taking over the Annalist’s chores from me because I
had so much to do as Captain and medic. I dared not discourage him.
The only alternative substitute was One-Eye. He was not
reliable.
And south some more, and still we were not back to
One-Eye’s origin, the jungles of D’loc Aloc.
One-Eye swore that never in his life, outside the Company, had
he heard the name Khatovar. It had to lie far beyond the waist of
the world.
There are limits to what frail flesh can endure.
Those long leagues were not easy. The black iron coach and
Lady’s wagon drew the eye of bandits and princes and princes
who were bandits. Most times Goblin and One-Eye bluffed us through.
The rest of the time we forced them to back down with a little
applied terror. There was one long stretch where the magic had gone
away.
If those two had learned anything during their years with the
Company, it was showmanship. When they conjured an illusion you
could smell its bad breath from seventy feet away.
I wished they would refrain from wasting that flash upon one
another.
I decided it was time we laid up for a few days. We needed to
regain our youthful bounce.
One-Eye suggested, “There’s a place down the road
called the Temple of Travellers’ Repose. They take in
wanderers. They have for two thousand years. It would be a good
place to lay up and do some research.”
“Research?”
“Two thousand years of travellers’ tales makes a
hell of a library, Croaker. And a tale is the only donative they
ever require.”
He had me. He grinned cockily. The old scoundrel knew me too
well. Nothing else could have stilled my determination to reach
Khatovar so thoroughly.
I passed the word. And gave One-Eye the fish-eye. “That
means you’re going to do some honest work.”
“What?”
“Who do you think is going to translate?”
He groaned and rolled his eye. “When am I going to learn
to keep my big damned mouth shut?”
The Temple was a lightly fortified monastery sprawled atop a low
hill. It looked golden
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