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.”
11
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 in the light of a late afternoon sun. The forest
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.”
11
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 in the light of a late afternoon sun. The forest
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