by Dave Duncan
"We must all hope so," the pastor said. His ferrety face twisted into a rueful smile. "Does that sound strange to you, Stepmother? Does it sound unworthy of a Zardon? Do you laugh now at our pretensions?"
Carp had described the crippled pastor as a caring man. For the first time, Gwin found herself feeling sympathy for him. The Tharns had always prided themselves on being Zarda. Now they had met true Zarda and discovered how far civilization had warped their values and culture. Wosion must be more shattered than any by this revelation. Barbarian ancestors were romantic. Cheeky young Polion deprived of his nose was emphatically not.
"No," she said. "I find your hope neither strange nor amusing. Daling is decadent; the Faceless are barbaric. I prefer to believe that there is a nobler middle ground, where people can be tough and self-reliant without oppressing others. If I did not think that your family was admirable, I should not have sought to join it."
Wosion stared at her strangely, and then nodded in grateful acknowledgement.
A few moments later, though, the trail narrowed. Gwin contrived to ease her horse back and Wosion joined her, letting Niad go ahead.
"You don't hold out much hope of Polion escaping do you?"
The pastor shook his head grimly. "None. From what Father has told me of his father's stories, and what I learned at Veriow... None. If Polion has truly been recruited into the sect, then he will be watched night and day for three days. That was the way it was always done, whether the recruit was willing or not—I suspect that many were not, even in the olden times."
Gwin swallowed a vile taste in her throat. "And after the three days?"
"Then he will be theirs. I do not understand this, Gwin, but the tradition is strong. By the fourth day, he will be loyal to his sect. He will be one of them. Why this should happen, I cannot understand. Apparently he joins his tormentors willingly."
Niad turned and peered back at them. Gwin smiled encouragingly and waited until the girl was again distracted.
"I don't understand either, but I think I believe you. I don't see how the sect could hold together unless it can somehow inspire great loyalty."
"Perhaps the recruit feels he has left humanity," Wosion muttered, almost to himself, "and accepts the only companionship open to him." He shook his head sadly. "If, by some miracle, Polion does escape, then they will hunt him down. If they must follow him to the ends of the world, they will catch him, so that he may have an honorable death."
"Which means a violent one, I presume?"
"Oh, yes. They slay their own wounded. In this case it means single combat: two men, two blades. No matter how many men it took, they would kill him. If we tried to shelter him, they would slay us also. He is already marked, of course."
The track widened. "I don't think Niad is ready for all that yet," Gwin said, moving Morningstar forward into the swiftly opening gap.
Neither was she. Oh, poor Polion! No wonder Tibal had mourned for him.
#
They were herded. Whenever Bulion approached a parting in the road, one of the Faceless would be standing there, pointing the way he must go. Sometimes it would be Fearmaster Zilion himself, distinguishable by his three-skulls emblem. Sometimes it would one of the others, but how many there were was unknowable. They all looked the same. One thing was certain—there would be enough of them to cope if the sheep tried to stray.
The way led through cultivated valleys dense with hedges and orchards and high crops, but also over rolling hills of pasturage that offered no cover at all. Yet the Faceless continued to appear on cue, one at every crossroads. If they had horses, they should have been visible. If they did not, they should have been left behind, for Bulion was pushing the pace as hard as he dared. They clung like burrs, all day.
#
By afternoon, the first shock had cooled enough for people to want to talk about it. The groupings shifted and changed. Gwin let Jasbur relieve her as Niad's comforter, hoping that a fresh point of view would be beneficial. She rode ahead to speak with Tibal.
Tibal was no help at all. For one thing, he was smiling his normal cheerful grin. It wavered as he looked at her.
"I cannot mourn, Gwin. I know Polion is mentioned in my diary, but I don't remember him. What's past is past."
"You mourned for him last night. I tried to comfort you then."
"I don't recall that, either. I can tell you that we have no more trouble until we reach Raragash. Does that help?"
It should, and yet it was not enough.
He frowned at her silence. "Whatever I said last night, it isn't easy being a Shoolscath. Grant me my forgetfulness. Would you rather look back in sadness or watch the sorrows coming and be unable to prevent them? Besides," he added, "do you think there will be no more deaths? This is not needlework you are playing at, woman!"
Gwin's temper flared. "I detest needlework, but I should much rather be engaged in needlework than this—whatever this is!"
Tibal seemed surprised by her ignorance. "Making history."
She replied with a profanity she had never admitted knowing before.
#
By late afternoon, the snowy cone of Mount Traphz loomed large on the horizon, although Jasbur said it was much farther away than it seemed. The countryside had became inhabited again. Sheep grazed the hills, and cattle the meadows. Dogs ran out to bark at the strangers going by. The travelers saw a few people in the distance, but they were allowed no contact. Every farm lane they passed was guarded by a grim, motionless figure with spear and shield, every village had to be bypassed.
As the sun sank lower, Gwin began to wonder if Shard's horse would again cast a shoe. Today it did not.
Bulion called a halt by the side of a nasty slimy stream in a valley of desolation, one that had apparently been swept by a fire within the last couple of years. Trees were black posts, houses and hedges had been swept away. The grass was lush enough, but there was no shelter from a chilly wind. Gwin thought the horses might manage to stagger on a little farther, and few campsites could be less appealing that this.
She was not alone in her doubts. Before the horses were unsaddled, the menacing figure of Fearmaster Zilion came striding across the landscape. He was approaching from the west, so he must have been waiting up ahead, and Gwin felt a mean twinge of satisfaction that he had been required to double back on his tracks.
"Move on!" he shouted angrily as soon as he came within range. "There will be light for two hours yet." It was the first time he had spoken, and his voice had the same dead, tuneless quality as Zorg's.
Bulion glowered, waiting until he was closer. "We have a ceremony to perform."
"Ah! Of course!" The warrior halted and grounded his spear. "Then I, too, shall honor a fallen companion."
"I prefer that you do not."
The skull bared its teeth. "You have no choice."
Bulion growled, but he could not evict the warrior without violence that would risk a massacre of the entire group.
The tents were pitched in silence, and a fire was lit.
As the bringer of life and death turned from white to blood red in the haze of the horizon, the Tharns all sat down in a semicircle to watch the sunset. Gwin and Niad were unpacking food with Jasbur when Wosion came limping over to fetch them. They looked up in surprise.
He had removed his hat. His stubbled face was gray with dust, lined and old. "Will you join us?" he said sadly. "This is part of the tradition."
The women rose. "I think you had better explain," Gwin said.
"A funeral. Polion is dead. I know funerals are elaborate affairs in Daling. To Qolians, death is an escape, yes? Your god rescues you—moves you from the arena to the stands, preserves you evermore from the workings of the fates. The Zarda see death as the end. Whether my nephew still breathes or not, he is dead to us now. A dead Zardon no longer exists except in the memories of his friends and family. Now we shall share those memories."
They went with him to join the group, Gwin sitting with Niad on one side
and Bulion on the other. He spared them a wan smile and clasped Gwin's hand in his.
Fearmaster Zilion moved in to listen, standing rigid with spear and shield just outside the semicircle.
Wosion began to speak. He told of one of Polion's many japes. When he ended, Bulion spoke briefly of his heroism in the hostel, but then he, too, narrated a personal memory, of finding thistles in his boots one morning. Jukion tried to follow, although his voice broke so badly that he could not finish. Then Zanion, and all the rest. Polion had been the family gadfly. His tricks had raised everyone's wrath and hand against him, brought him punishment without measure, and now they were what his family remembered best about him, and most fondly.
Gwin thought of Tibal's dread prophecy of more deaths to come.
When the men had finished, only a tiny sliver of Poul's red disk still burned at the shoulder of Mount Psomb. Everyone looked expectantly at Niad, but Niad was beyond speech. Gwin decided to speak in her place. She had a lump in her throat that would not let her sit unheard. She had liked Polion. She thought he deserved a better monument than childish pranks.
"I wish I had known the boy you just described," she said. "I wish much more that I could know the man he would have become and now cannot. I caught a glimpse of that man when he risked his life to rescue me, a woman he had never met. I caught another the following morning, when Labranza Lamith told him that he was playing with fire by courting an Ivielscath. Polion said, 'I like playing with fire!' He took Niad in his arms and kissed her. For that alone, I shall honor his memory always."
The last trace of the sun vanished as if an eye had closed.
#
The mourners rose in silence and began to move away. Something struck Gwin a sharp blow in the back and she spun around indignantly. The something had been the haft of the fearmaster's spear. She recoiled from that inhuman mask.
He stepped closer. "Tell me of that rescue, woman."
Gwin licked her lips and glanced around. Bulion was heading back to fire with an arm around Niad, speaking softly to her. One or two of the others had noticed her problem, but they were just watching, reluctant to interfere. She turned her attention again to the waiting warrior.
She told of the attempt to abduct her. She had seen very little of Polion's actions herself, but she had heard them described often enough. As she recounted them, she studied the Zardon and his mutilated parody of a face. Only a man, she told herself, a man like any other. She could see the dust and dried sweat on him. The whiteness was not paint. Every hair had been removed and the color tattooed in. It must have been a long and painful process, perhaps worse than the mutilation of the nose. Even the eyebrows had gone. As she told how Polion had attacked a swordsman with nothing but a stool, the warrior smiled in approval. She saw that his front teeth still bore slight serrations on their cutting edges. He could not be more than twenty-one, therefore, and perhaps little older than Polion.
When she had finished, he smiled again. "I see the royal blood still runs true!"
"I told you Polion had courage. He did not even fear an Ivielscath! Do you, Fearmaster?"
"Watch your tongue, hag, or I shall remove it."
"Easy to bully an unarmed woman! Disease is a more fitting opponent. You and your friends have stolen the husband of a Cursed. I suggest you stay out of range of her powers, or you may truly have a skull for a face before long."
The warrior pursed his tattooed lips. Then he turned and walked away without another word. He strode westward and she watched him go, dwindling away into the twilight.
It was a very hollow little victory.
#
The travelers had climbed a long way from the steamy Flugoss plains and the chill wind blew straight from the Giants. Soon thereafter, the stars came out in swarms and the temperature dropped like a bucket in a well. Right after the evening meal, everyone voted for tent and blanket. Few were going to be truly warm. Jasbur had been staying very close to Ordur all day; those two would likely be even closer in the night. Possibly Wraxal and Jojo would cuddle together in whatever strange intimacy a Jaulscath and Muolscath found in each other, although Gwin hoped they would take Ephi and little Kinimim inside their bedding with them.
She herself had Bulion. He was big, furry, and very cozy to cuddle. She knew he needed her that night. She probably knew it better than he did. They snuggled close in each other's arms, but before lovemaking came play, and before play came talk.
"This trip was my idea," she whispered, "and I am truly sorry."
His voice rumbled low in her ear. "No. I got us into this, and you were right all along. Putting up a wall of stones and hiding behind it will not bring safety."
"I never said—"
"Then you should have done. The fort is a mistake. The family's best hope of security is to learn how to fight. We need not become Faceless, but we must train our men. Archery, I think. Moving like the Faceless, unseen and silent. Attackers must be driven away before they reach our homes. When we get back, I shall see to it. No more fort!"
She hugged him tighter. "Wise old Bull! Jasbur says it will take us another ten days to reach Raragash by High Pass. It isn't much used. The north road is easier."
"And I talked with Ordur. We can return through Nurz and Mokth—take a boat down the Flugoss to Tolamin or Daling."
"Mm." Gwin adjusted position. "But I spoke with Vaslar. She says when you see one army, you can usually find another. Crossing the Cockpit may not be quite that simple!"
"We'll get home!" Bulion said firmly. He demonstrated that the serious talk was over, the time for serious kissing had arrived.
"One last question?" Gwin said breathlessly.
He chuckled. "Always one last question! What?"
"The fearmaster made an odd comment about royal blood. What did he mean?"
"Nothing much. My father belonged to a sect called the Hearteaters. Every man in the sect was related to the Zarda royal family. It was how they disposed of surplus princes. Eventually the Hearteaters were the royal family. Pantholion himself was dreadlord."
"You mean you're descended from Pantholion himself?"
"I could be, but you can't prove paternity in a warrior sect. They... well, never mind. I could be."
"But that explains it, then."
"Explains what?" Bulion had lost all interest in conversation and was moving on to other activities. It was a good sign. Gwin murmured encouragement.
"How you become the first emperor of a new empire, of course."
"Fates, woman! If you married me to be an empress, you are going to be sadly disappointed."
"I hoped you wouldn't guess. But I married you for other reasons, too."
"Such as?"
"Oh... this. And this..."
And that.
42
The next morning the travelers continued on their way, heading for the rugged splendor of the Giants, dominated from that viewpoint by the spectacular snowy cones of Psomb and Traphz. As before, a warrior stood ready to direct them at every junction. They made no contact with the inhabitants.
Sleep had blunted the shock and sorrow. Polion was rarely mentioned, and once in a while people could laugh again. Life must go on.
The three Awailscaths seemed to have stabilized in their new shapes. Vaslar was a plump, motherly woman in her forties. She was obviously trying to follow Gwin's suggestion and make the best of the situation, to play the role the fates had decreed for her at the moment. She still tended to grumble that she was a soldier and once in a while she would let slip a military obscenity.
Jasbur was a slender dark beauty of around thirty, flashing seductive glances at the men, especially Jukion, who tended to shy like a foal whenever he noticed. Mostly she stayed very close to Ordur, as if she did not trust him.
The transformation was most noticeable in Ordur. He was not merely a dashingly handsome young man, he was clearly an extremely clever one. Several people commented on that. Everyone was wondering who had sent that mysterious message
and why it had been addressed to him, but no one had been able to win any answers from him. Slippery as a soaped eel, was how Bulion described the Awailscath now.
Eventually Gwin realized that the new Ordur must be avoiding her. She accepted that as a challenge and contrived to corner him on a narrow part of the trail where thorny hedges closed in and there was barely room for two to ride abreast. He would not easily escape!
He obviously guessed what she was up to. He greeted her with a glorious display of white teeth and sparkling blue eyes. Had she not been a happily married woman it would have turned her head like a windmill. As it was, she found herself wondering if her hair was on straight and what the sunshine had been doing to her complexion. Wow! How could he know he was so good when he had never seen his own face?
"May the fates smile on you, Gwinim Tharn!"
"Your smile will be quite enough for now, Ordur Saj! I have a question for you."
"This information does not astonish me. You are a woman who likes to know the rules of the game, aren't you?" He was playing with her.
"Very much so. What happened to Polion?"
"The Faceless enjoy practicing their skills. King Hexzion enjoys interrogating prisoners. He sent them out to catch him a victim."
Gwin had heard about the king of Wesnar's notorious recreations. "No!"
"Fortunately, no. Polion was not tortured—not in that sense, anyway. The king was going to put him to death. He was offered a chance to join the Faceless instead. He elected to join the Faceless. That's all."
"Seven Curses! That is not all! How did Dreadlord Zorg know that Polion had killed a man?"
The gaiety vanished. Ordur studied the road ahead for a moment. When he had left Tharn Valley, he had been a stumblebum horseman. Now he rode with the polished ease of a cavalry veteran.
"I shall tell you a secret," he said, "if you will promise to remember that it is a secret."
"You mean promise never to reveal it?"
"No. Just to use your discretion in choosing whom you tell it to."
"I would do that anyway, but I promise."