by Glen Cook
He grinned. For an instant the devil of years past peeped forth. “Some guys I know-mentioning no names, you know how it is-swiped a half dozen pairs from the Guard Armory last night. Duty man fell asleep on post.”
I grinned and winked. So. I was not seeing enough of them to keep up, but they were not just sitting around and waiting.
“Couple pairs went off to Darling, just in case. Got four pair left. And just a smidgen of a plan.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. You’ll see. Brilliant, if I do say so myself.”
“Where are the shoes? When are you going?”
“Meet us in the smokehouse after the Taken get off the ground.”
Several guards came in to eat, looking exhausted, grumbling. One-Eye departed, leaving me in deep thought. What were they plotting?
The most carefully laid plans … Like that.
The Lady marched into the mess hall. “Get your gloves and coats, Croaker. It’s time.”
I gaped.
“Are you coming?”
“But …” I flailed around for an excuse. “If we go, somebody will have to do without a carpet.”
She gave me an odd look. “Limper is staying here. Come. Get your clothing.”
I did so, in a daze, passing Goblin as we went outside. I gave him a baffled little headshake.
A moment before we lifted off the Lady reached back, offering me something. “What’s this?”
“Better wear it. Unless you want to go in without an amulet.”
“Oh.”
It did not look like much. Some cheap jaspar and jade on brittle leather. Yet when I secured the buckle around my wrist, I felt the power in it.
We passed over the rooftops very low. They were the only visual guides available. Out on the cleared land there was nothing. But being the Lady, she had other resources.
We took a turn around the bounds of the Barrowland. On the river side we descended till the water lay but a yard beneath us. “Lot of ice,” I said.
She did not reply. She was studying the shoreline, now within the Barrowland itself. A sodden section of bank collapsed, revealing a dozen skeletons. I grimaced. In moments they were covered with snow or swept away. “Just about on schedule, I’d guess,” I said. “Uhm.” She moved on around the perimeter. A couple times I glimpsed other carpets circling. Something below caught my eye. “Down there!” “What?”
“Thought I saw tracks.” “Maybe. Toadkiller Dog is nearby.” Oh, my.
“Time,” she said, and turned toward the Great Barrow. We put down at the mound’s base. She piled out. I joined her. Other carpets descended. Soon there were four Taken, the Lady, and one scared old physician standing just yards from the despair of the world.
One of the Taken brought shovels. Snow began to fly. We took turns, nobody exempt. It was a bitch of a job, and became more so when we reached the buried scrub growth. It got worse when we reached frozen earth. We had to go slow. The Lady said Bomanz was barely covered.
It went on, it seemed, forever. Dig and dig and dig. We uncovered a withered humanoid thing the Lady assured us was Bomanz.
My shovel clicked against something my last turn. I bent to examine it, thinking it a rock. I brushed frosty earth away …
And dived out of that hole, whirled, pointed. The Lady went down. Laughter drifted upward. “Croaker found the dragon. His jaw, anyway.”
I kept on retreating, toward our carpet …
Something huge vaulted it, trailing a basso snarl. I flung myself to one side, into snow that swallowed me. There were cries, growls … When I emerged it was over. I glimpsed Toadkiller Dog clearing the carpet in retreat, more than a little scarred.
The Lady and Taken had been ready for him.
“Why didn’t somebody warn me?” I whined.
“He could have read you. I’m just sorry we didn’t cripple him.”
Two Taken, probably of the male vice, lifted Bomanz. He was stiff as a statue, yet there was that about him which even I could sense. A spark, or something. No one could have mistaken him for dead.
Into a carpet he went.
The anger in the mound had been a trickle, barely sensed, like the buzzing of a fly across a room. It smacked us now, one hard hammer stroke reeking madness. Not an iota of fear informed it. That thing had an absolute confidence in its ultimate victory. We were but delays and irritants.
The carpet carrying Bomanz departed. Then another. I settled into my place and willed the Lady to hurry me away.
A spate of snarling and yelling broke out toward town. Brilliant light slashed through the snowfall. “I knew it,” I growled, one fear realized. Toadkiller Dog had found One-Eye and Goblin.
Another carpet lifted. The Lady boarded ours, closed the dome. “Fools,” she said. “What were they doing?”
I said nothing.
She did not see. Her attention was on the carpet, which was not behaving as it should. Something seemed to pull it toward the Great Barrow. But I saw. Tracker’s ugly face passed at eye level. He carried the son of the tree.
Then Toadkiller Dog reappeared, stalking Tracker. Half the monster’s face was gone. He ran on three legs. But he was plenty enough to take Tracker apart.
The Lady saw Toadkiller Dog. She spun the carpet. Systematically she loosed its eight thirty foot shafts. She did not miss. And yet …
Dragging the missiles, engulfed in flame, Toadkiller Dog crawled into the Great Tragic River. He went under and did not come up.
“That’ll keep him out of the way for a while.”
Not ten yards away, oblivious, Tracker was clearing the peak of the Great Barrow so he could plant his sapling. “Idiots,” the Lady murmured. “I’m surrounded by idiots. Even the Tree is a dolt.”
She would not explain. Neither did she interfere.
I sought traces of One-Eye and Goblin as we flew homeward. I saw nothing. They were not in the compound. Of course. There had not yet been time for them to snowshoe back. But when they had not appeared an hour later, I began having trouble concentrating on the reanimation of Bomanz.
That started with repeated hot baths, both to warm his flesh and to cleanse him. I did not get to see the preliminaries. The Lady kept me with her. She did not look in till the Taken were ready for the final quickening. And that was unimpressive. The Lady made a few gestures around Bomanz-who looked pretty moth-eaten-and said a few words in a language I did not understand.
Why do sorcerers always use languages nobody understands? Even Goblin and One-Eye do it. Each has confided that he cannot follow the tongue the other uses. Maybe they make it up?
Her words worked. That old wreck came to life grittily determined to push forward against a savage wind. He marched three steps before registering his altered circumstances.
He froze. He turned slowly, face collapsing into despair. His gaze locked on the Lady. Maybe two minutes passed. Then he looked the rest of us over and considered his surroundings.
“You explain, Croaker.”
“Does he speak …”
“Forsberger hasn’t changed.”
I faced Bomanz, a legend come to life. “I am Croaker. A military physician by profession. You are Bomanz …”
“His name is Seth Chalk, Croaker. Let us establish that immediately.”
“You are Bomanz, whose true name may be Seth Chalk, a sorcerer of Oar. Nearly a century has passed since you attempted to contact the Lady.”
“Give him the whole story.” The Lady used a Jewel Cities dialect likely to be outside Bomanz’s capacity.
I talked till I was hoarse. The rise of the Lady’s empire. The threat defeated at the battle at Charm. The threat defeated at Juniper. The present threat. He said not a word in all that time. Not once did I see in him the fat, almost obsequious shopkeeper of the story.
His first words were: “So. I did not entirely fail.” He faced the Lady. “And you remain tainted by the light, Not-Ardath.” He faced me again. “You will take me to the White Rose. As soon as I have eaten.�
�
Nary a protest from the Lady.
He ate like a fat little shopkeeper.
The Lady herself helped me back into my wet winter coat. “Don’t dawdle,” she cautioned.
Hardly had we departed when Bomanz seemed to diminish. He said, “I’m too old. Don’t let that back there fool you. An act. Going to play with the big boys, you have to act. What’ll I do? A hundred years. Less than a week to redeem myself. How will I get a handle on things that quickly? The only principal I know is the Lady.”
“Why did you think she was Ardath? Why not one of the other sisters?”
“There was more than one?”
“Four.” I named them. “From your papers I’ve established that Soulcatcher was the one named Dorotea …”
“My papers?”
“So called. Because the story of you wakening the Lady was prominent among them. It’s always been assumed, till a few days ago, that you assembled them and your wife carried them away when she thought you had died.”
“Bears investigation. I collected nothing. I risked nothing but a map of the Barrowland.”
“I know the map well.”
“I must see those papers. But first, your White Rose. Meanwhile, tell me about the Lady.”
I had trouble staying with him. He zigged and zagged, spraying ideas. “What about her?”
“There is a detectable tension between you. Of enemies who are friends, perhaps. Lovers who are enemies? Opponents who know one another well and respect one another. If you respect her, it’s with reason. It’s impossible to respect total evil. It cannot respect itself.”
Wow. He was right. I did respect her. So I talked a bit. And my theme was, when I noticed it, that she did remain tainted by the light. “She tried hard to be a villain. But when faced by real darkness-the thing under the mound-her weakness started to show.”
“It is only slightly less difficult for us to extinguish the light within us than it is for us to conquer the darkness. A Dominator occurs once in a hundred generations. The others, like the Taken, are but imitations.”
“Can you stand against the Lady?”
“Hardly. I suspect my fate is to become one of the Taken when she finds time.” He’d landed on his feet, this old boy. He halted. “Lords! She’s strong!”
“Who?”
“Your Darling. An incredible absorption. I feel helpless as a child.”
We stamped into Blue Willy, entering through a second-floor window. The snow was banked that high.
One-Eye, Goblin, and Silent were down in the common room with Darling. The first two looked a bit shopworn. “So,” I said. “You guys made it. I thought Toadkiller Dog had you for lunch.”
“No problem at all,” One-Eye said. “We …”
“What do you mean, we?” Goblin demanded. “You were worthless as tits on a boar hog. Silent …”
“Shut up. This is Bomanz. He wants to meet Darling.”
“The Bomanz?” Goblin squeaked.
“The very one.”
Their meeting was about a three-question interview. Darling took charge immediately. When he realized Darling was leading him, Bomanz broke it off. He told me, “Next step. I read my alleged autobiography.”
“It’s not yours?”
“Unlikely. Unless my memory serves me worse than I suppose.”
We returned to the compound in silence. He seemed reflective. Darling has that impact on those who meet her for the first time. She is just Darling to those of us who have known her all along.
Bomanz worked his way through the original manuscript, occasionally asking about specific passages. He was unfamiliar with the UchiTelle dialect.
“You had nothing to do with that, then?”
“No. But my wife was the primary source. Question. Was the girl Snoopy traced?”
“No.”
“She is the one to follow up. She is the only survivor of significance.”
“I’ll tell the Lady. But there isn’t time for it. In a few days Hell is going to break loose out there.” I wondered if Tracker had gotten the sapling planted. Much good it would do when the Great Tragic reached the mound. Brave move but dumb, Tracker.
The effects of his effort were apparent soon, though. When I got around to relaying Bomanz’s suggestion about Snoopy, the Lady asked, “Have you noted the weather?”
“No.”
“It’s getting better. The sapling stilled my husband’s ability to shape it. Too late, of course. It will be months before the river falls.”
She was depressed. She merely nodded when I told her what Bomanz had to say.
“Is it that bad? Are we defeated before we enter the lists?”
“No. But the price of victory escalates. I do not want to pay that price. I don’t know if I can.”
I stood there perplexed, awaiting an expansion upon the subject. None was forthcoming.
After a time she said, “Sit, Croaker.” I sat in the chair she indicated, next to a roaring fire diligently tended by the soldier Case. After a time she sent Case away. But still nothing was forthcoming.
“Time tightens the noose,” she murmured at one point, and at another, “I’m afraid to unravel the knot.”
Chapter Fifty-Four: AN EVENING AT HOME
Days passed. No one of any especial allegiance gained any apparent ground. The Lady canceled all investigations. She and the Taken conferred often. I was excluded. So was Bomanz. The Limper participated only when ordered out of my quarters.
I gave up trying to sleep there. I moved in with Goblin and One-Eye. Which shows how much the Taken distressed me. Sharing a room with those two is like living amidst an ongoing riot.
Raven, as ever, changed not the least and remained mostly forgotten by all but his loyal Case. Silent did look in occasionally, on Darling’s behalf, but without enthusiasm.
Only then did I realize that Silent felt more toward Darling than loyalty and protectiveness, and he was without means of expressing those feelings. Silence was enforced upon him by more than a vow.
I could not learn which sisters were twins. As I anticipated, Tracker found nothing in the genealogies. A miracle he found what he did, the way sorcerers cover their back trails.
Goblin and One-Eye tried hypnotizing him, hoping to plumb his ancient memories. It was like stalking ghosts in a heavy fog.
The Taken moved to stall the Great Tragic. Ice collected along the western bank, turning the force of the current. But they overtinkered and a gorge developed. It threatened to raise the river level. A two-day effort won us maybe ten hours.
Occasionally large tracks appeared around the Barrowland, soon vanished beneath drifting snow. Though the skies cleared, the air grew colder. The snow neither melted nor crusted. The Taken engineered that. A wind from the east stirred the snow continuously.
Case stopped by to tell me, “The Lady wants you, sir. Right away.”
I broke off playing three-handed Tonk with Goblin and One-Eye. So far had things slowed-except the flow of time. There was nothing more we could do.
“Sir,” said Case as we stepped out of hearing of the others, “be careful.” “Uhm?”
“She’s in a dark mood.”
“Thanks.” I dallied. My own mood was dark enough. It did not need to feed on hers.
Her quarters had been refurnished. Carpets had been brought in. Hangings covered the walls. A settee of sorts stood before the fireplace, where a fire burned with a comforting crackle. The atmosphere seemed calculated. Home as we dream it to be rather than as it is.
She was seated on the couch. “Come sit with me,” she said, without glancing back to see who had come in. I started to take one of the chairs. “No. Here, by me.” So I settled on the couch. “What is it?”
Her eyes were fixed on something far away. Her face said she was in pain. “I have decided.”
“Yes?” I waited nervously, not sure what she meant, less sure I belonged there.
“The choices have narrowed down. I can surrender and become
another of the Taken.”
That was a Jess dire penalty than I had expected. “Or?” “Or I can fight. A battle that can’t be won. Or won only in its losing.”
“If you can’t win, why fight?” I would not have asked that of one of the Company. With my own I would have known the answer.
Hers was not ours. “Because the outcome can be shaped. I can’t win. But I can decide who does.”
“Or at least make sure it isn’t him?”
A slow nod.
Her bleak mood began to make sense. I have seen it on the battlefield, with men about to undertake a task likely to be fatal but which must be hazarded so others will not perish.
To cover my reaction, I slipped off the couch and added three small logs to the fire. But for our moods it would have been nice there in the crispy heat, watching the dancing flames.
We did that for a while. I sensed that I was not expected to talk.
“It begins at sunup,” she said at last.
“What?”
“The final conflict. Laugh at me. Croaker. I’m going to try to kill a shadow. With no hope of surviving myself.”
Laugh? Never. Admire. Respect. My enemy still, in the end unable to extinguish that last spark of light and so die in yet another way.
All this while she sat there primly, hands folded in her lap. She stared into the fire as if certain that eventually it would reveal the answer to some mystery. She began to shiver.
This woman for whom death held such devouring terror had chosen death over surrender.
What did that do for my confidence? Nothing good. Nothing good at all. I might have felt better had I seen the picture she did. But she did not talk about it.
In a very, very soft, tentative voice, she asked, “Croaker? Will you hold me?”
What? I didn’t say it, but I sure as hell thought it.
I didn’t say anything. Clumsily, uncertainly, I did as she asked.
She began crying on my shoulder, softly, quietly, shaking like a captive baby rabbit.
It was a long time before she said anything. I did not presume.
“No one has done this since I was a baby. My nurse …”
Another long silence.
“I’ve never had a friend.”