The White Rose

by Glen Cook

  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.�
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  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?”

&nb
sp; 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.”