by baseless fears, will have eliminated
everyone with enough nerve, strength, and ability to lift a sword."
Gordimer rose. He stamped around. He cursed. He threatened. He appealed to God.
He told his only friend, "You have to help me, Rashal. I can't control my
thoughts. But they can control me."
"I'll do what I can. For Dreanger's sake as well as yours. But my best efforts
won't do any good if you don't make an effort yourself. Remind yourself,
whenever you think you smell a plot, that there's an excellent chance that it's
imaginary. Talk to me before you start killing people. Sit down with me and
we'll study the evidence. And let me question the suspects before you kill them.
We don't want to waste good people. Abad did that Abad wasted too many good
people. Which was why you gained enough support to remove him."
Er-Rashal did not mention that he had been chief wizard to Gordimer's
predecessor. No need to give Gordimer anything else to brood about.
"I try, Rashal. I really try. But it's a disease."
"Just let me question your suspects. Don't do anything yourself. Don't draw the
lightning."
Gordimer grunted agreement. But he did so with secret reservations.
7. The Andorayan Travelers
Shagot rested his palms on his knees. He panted. He had stopped only seconds
before he started puking from the exertion. He had done way too much drinking
and loafing lately. Though he would never admit it, particularly to Sigurdur
and Sigurjon, whose parents must have lost a riddling contest to a boulder to
come up with names as unimaginative as those. Not that he and his brother had
fared much better.
"Shit," Shagot gasped. He fought for air. "How the hell... can we still... be
this far... behind... those assholes?"
Shagot and his companions stood in a saddle on a ridge in the Jottendyngjan
Mountains, fighting for wind while studying the road south. The fire in Shagot's
lungs was less a problem man his incredulity at the fact that those pussy
missionaries were still safely ahead. But, there they were, looking like ants
scaling the flank of the next line of mountains.
Svavar said, "I don't like this. We should've taken a ship down and waited for
them at the Ormo crossing."
Shagot grunted. He did not waste breath reminding Svavar that the Ormo Strait
was not friendly territory. Any ship from Andoray appearing there was inviting a
ferocious disaster.
The Southron villains had to be overhauled from behind. On dryland.
Sigurdur asked, "What're we gonna do when it gets dark, Grim? They's trolls and
dwarfs an' shit up here."
"Yeah. Not to mention ghosts and haunts left over from the god times," Sigurjon
added. By the god times he meant prehistory. The gods were marginally active
even today—witness the Choosers who took Erief away—but not much had been heard
from them since those legendary times when the early Andorayans drove the wild, mystic, primitive Seatts north
beyond the cliffs of ice, into the lands of always-snow.
"The old folks gave me all the wards and charms we'll need to get through the
night For as long as it takes to catch those girls."
"Who gave them to you?" Svavar wanted to know. "Not Vidgis, I hope. Because ff
it was Vidgis we're dead already and we're just too boneheaded to lay down and
stop kicking."
Vidgis had gotten Svavar to top her once, in a drunken hour. He insisted that it
would not have happened if she was not some terrible witch who had enchanted
him.
Chuckling, Shagot agreed. "Oh, yeah. She's a witch." The way all women are
witches. She just had a few extra years on her. "Pulla, Trygg, and that bunch
gave them to me. They're tribal charms. Charms they wouldn't have given us if
Snaefells and the Skogafjordur hadn't witnessed those marvels."
"Huh?" Sigurdur said. Not the brightest man, Sigurdur. "What marvels?"
"Sigurdur, you think the murder of a king is something that happens every day?"
Erief would have become king if he had lived, Shagot knew. "You think the
everyone with enough nerve, strength, and ability to lift a sword."
Gordimer rose. He stamped around. He cursed. He threatened. He appealed to God.
He told his only friend, "You have to help me, Rashal. I can't control my
thoughts. But they can control me."
"I'll do what I can. For Dreanger's sake as well as yours. But my best efforts
won't do any good if you don't make an effort yourself. Remind yourself,
whenever you think you smell a plot, that there's an excellent chance that it's
imaginary. Talk to me before you start killing people. Sit down with me and
we'll study the evidence. And let me question the suspects before you kill them.
We don't want to waste good people. Abad did that Abad wasted too many good
people. Which was why you gained enough support to remove him."
Er-Rashal did not mention that he had been chief wizard to Gordimer's
predecessor. No need to give Gordimer anything else to brood about.
"I try, Rashal. I really try. But it's a disease."
"Just let me question your suspects. Don't do anything yourself. Don't draw the
lightning."
Gordimer grunted agreement. But he did so with secret reservations.
7. The Andorayan Travelers
Shagot rested his palms on his knees. He panted. He had stopped only seconds
before he started puking from the exertion. He had done way too much drinking
and loafing lately. Though he would never admit it, particularly to Sigurdur
and Sigurjon, whose parents must have lost a riddling contest to a boulder to
come up with names as unimaginative as those. Not that he and his brother had
fared much better.
"Shit," Shagot gasped. He fought for air. "How the hell... can we still... be
this far... behind... those assholes?"
Shagot and his companions stood in a saddle on a ridge in the Jottendyngjan
Mountains, fighting for wind while studying the road south. The fire in Shagot's
lungs was less a problem man his incredulity at the fact that those pussy
missionaries were still safely ahead. But, there they were, looking like ants
scaling the flank of the next line of mountains.
Svavar said, "I don't like this. We should've taken a ship down and waited for
them at the Ormo crossing."
Shagot grunted. He did not waste breath reminding Svavar that the Ormo Strait
was not friendly territory. Any ship from Andoray appearing there was inviting a
ferocious disaster.
The Southron villains had to be overhauled from behind. On dryland.
Sigurdur asked, "What're we gonna do when it gets dark, Grim? They's trolls and
dwarfs an' shit up here."
"Yeah. Not to mention ghosts and haunts left over from the god times," Sigurjon
added. By the god times he meant prehistory. The gods were marginally active
even today—witness the Choosers who took Erief away—but not much had been heard
from them since those legendary times when the early Andorayans drove the wild, mystic, primitive Seatts north
beyond the cliffs of ice, into the lands of always-snow.
"The old folks gave me all the wards and charms we'll need to get through the
night For as long as it takes to catch those girls."
"Who gave them to you?" Svavar wanted to know. "Not Vidgis, I hope. Because ff
it was Vidgis we're dead already and we're just too boneheaded to lay down and
stop kicking."
Vidgis had gotten Svavar to top her once, in a drunken hour. He insisted that it
would not have happened if she was not some terrible witch who had enchanted
him.
Chuckling, Shagot agreed. "Oh, yeah. She's a witch." The way all women are
witches. She just had a few extra years on her. "Pulla, Trygg, and that bunch
gave them to me. They're tribal charms. Charms they wouldn't have given us if
Snaefells and the Skogafjordur hadn't witnessed those marvels."
"Huh?" Sigurdur said. Not the brightest man, Sigurdur. "What marvels?"
"Sigurdur, you think the murder of a king is something that happens every day?"
Erief would have become king if he had lived, Shagot knew. "You think the
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