Treasured One

by David Eddings

  Narasan winced.

  “Their latest bridge—which isn’t finished yet—looks to be strong enough to stay in place even if a thousand men try to come across all at the same time. They’ve got braces jammed up against the underside of their new bridge every few inches, I’d swear.”

  “How much longer do you think it’s going to take them to finish?”

  “A couple more days is about all. Then they’ll all dash north, shouting ‘Gold! gold! gold!’ right up until they reach Sorgan’s trenches and those poisoned stakes.”

  “He told me about them when I passed through his camp. He can be a very evil man when he sets his mind to something, can’t he?”

  “Fun, though,” Padan replied with a broad grin. “Those poisoned stakes at the bottom of his trenches will make it almost certain that the entire five Church armies will be coming up to Gunda’s wall all at the same time, and that’s all we’ve ever wanted.”

  “I think I’ll need to reconsider my original plan, though,” Narasan said glumly. “I thought that falling back to the next breastworks every night would give the Church armies enough time to get up there—in small groups, anyway. Sorgan’s stakes will delay them, I’m afraid. We will get more men up there, but it’s going to take them longer. I think I’ll revise the plan and tell the men to hold each breastworks for two days instead of only one.”

  “Whatever works the best, old friend,” Padan agreed.

  Narasan looked off to the north. “It’s just a bit skimpy, I’m afraid,” he said with a slight frown.

  “You missed me there, Narasan.”

  “There are a couple of crags and such sticking up out of the Wasteland out there, and that’s about all that those Church soldiers will be able to see when they get up here. Those crags have a sprinkling of the imitation gold on them, but they aren’t nearly as impressive as the flatter, sandy areas are.”

  “If Sorgan’s cousin Torl was anywhere close to being correct about what brought the churchies running up here, a few sprinkles should be all it’s going to take,” Padan disagreed. “It’s what they’ll see when they reach Gunda’s wall that’s important. That’s when we’ll want their minds to shut down to the point that it won’t matter what sort of monsters are running up the slope toward them. We want greed to overcome terror at that point.”

  “We can hope, I guess,” Narasan said.

  MANY VOICES

  1

  Andar of Kaldacin was standing behind the eighth breastwork on the slope that ran down from the north of Gunda’s wall, and he was seriously discontented. He kept encountering things here in the Land of Dhrall that seemed to be absurdities. Andar had fought in many wars during his career in Commander Narasan’s army, but the enemies in those past wars had always been human.

  Gunda and Padan had been given some time to adjust to the enemy’s peculiarities during the previous war, but Andar had been left behind in the army encampment near the port city of Castano. He’d felt a bit flattered by Narasan’s decision to place him in command of the bulk of the army that had remained behind, but that had also left him behind, and he resented that.

  In a certain sense, Narasan’s habit of always pushing Andar aside had probably been the result of the fact that Andar’s father had been housed in a different building from Narasan’s when the current officers were all children. Narasan’s almost automatic reliance on Gunda and Padan had obviously derived from early childhood. Narasan trusted Gunda and Padan more than he trusted other officers of equal ability because he knew them better.

  Andar ruefully admitted to himself that he would most certainly have relied on his boyhood friend Danal in much the same way he had become the army commander.

  The early light along the eastern horizon began to climb higher and higher, tinting the few clouds in that area a glorious pink.

  “Any activity out there?” Danal asked as he joined Andar behind the crudely built breastworks.

  “Nothing yet,” Andar replied in a hushed voice.

  “At least we won’t have to worry about those cursed burrows that kept cropping up back in the ravine during that last war,” Danal said.

  “I never did get the straight of that,” Andar admitted.

  “It’s one of those things that people don’t like to talk about,” Danal said with a shudder. “The bug-things had most probably been planning that attack for a long, long time. First they bored holes through the mountains, and the holes came out high up on the sides of the ravine. We didn’t know about them, so we just marched on up to the head of the ravine, built a nice sturdy fort, and waited for the bug-things to attack us. They wasted quite a few of their fellow bugs to keep us occupied while their friends crept through those burrows and came out behind us. That pretty much trapped us, because there was no place for us to go.”

  “I never really understood that very clearly. How could bugs chop holes through solid rock?”

  “Chew, not chop, Andar,” Danal corrected. “From what the natives up there told us, the thing they always called ‘the Vlagh’ had been preparing for that invasion for centuries.”

  “Bugs don’t live that long, Danal,” Andar scoffed.

  “We’re not in the land of reality anymore, Andar. Things happen here that couldn’t possibly happen anywhere else in the whole wide world. We had floods and volcanos working for us during that last war, and you don’t see things like that out in the real world.”

  Andar peered down the slope in the growing light of dawn. “It looks to me like a few things have changed, Danal,” he said.

  “Oh?”

  “It would appear that the bug-people don’t go back out into the desert when the sun goes down like they used to. It looks like they’ve set up camp in those two outermost breastworks. I think that the Vlagh thing’s still back out in the desert, though. I’ve heard it bellow a few times since its soldiers—or whatever you want to call them—occupied those last two breastworks, and the bellow was still coming from a long way off.”

  “The bug-people protect the Vlagh with everything they’ve got, Andar,” Danal said, “which does make some sense, I suppose. It is the mother of every single bug out there, and children really should protect their dear old mommy, wouldn’t you say?”

  “That’s going to take a bit of getting used to,” Andar said, shaking his head. “I’ve never had occasion to fight a woman’s army before.”

  “We were on the receiving end of several lectures that dealt with the creatures of the Wasteland when we were back in Lattash waiting for the snow to melt,” Danal told his friend. “There was a very skinny old man—who I was told educated that archer named Longbow. He told us that almost all of the bug-people are females, but only the Vlagh lays the eggs that produce new variations of the original bug-people. The old man told us that the Vlagh steals characteristics from other insects—and even animals. The tiny ones we met in the ravine had snake-fangs—complete with venom—but after we’d whomped all over them, I guess the Vlagh decided that it was going to need big ones.”

  “Whomped?” Andar asked curiously.

  Danal shrugged. “The Maags use that word all the time,” he said. “It’s sort of colorful, so most of the younger soldiers in Narasan’s advance army started to talk about ‘whomping’ other creatures—or each other, for that matter. If you listen carefully, you’ll probably hear those young men threatening to ‘whomp’ just about anybody who walks past. It’s the newest ‘stylish’ word, so they’ll all keep repeating it until they’ve worn it out. Then they’ll find another word to play with.”

  Andar smiled. “It’s just a symptom of a fairly common disease, Danal. It’s called ‘youth.’ They’ll all get over it—eventually.”

  “You’re a cynic, Andar.”

  “I know. It’s quite possible that’s a symptom of still another disease, the one that’s called ‘old.’ Unfortunately, people don’t get over that one.”

  It was early that afternoon when the buckskin-clad archer Longbow led a sizeable party
of native bowmen down the slope to join Narasan’s force in the breastworks, and that quite obviously brightened Commander Narasan’s day. Despite the training Longbow’s friend Red-Beard had given the amateur Trogite archers, they were still fairly inept. From what Andar had heard, the native bowmen were much more skilled.

  “Have those Church armies finished building that bridge yet?” Narasan asked the tall archer.

  “They’re fairly close, I think,” Longbow replied. “Sorgan’s finished his trenches and barricades, so we’re ready for those Church armies. I think you should probably follow that plan you came up with earlier, though. We can’t be completely sure how long it’s going to take the Church armies to get through Sorgan’s defenses, so you’d probably better continue to delay the creatures of the Wasteland until we’re more certain just exactly when our friends—who don’t know that they’re our friends—are going to reach Gunda’s wall.”

  “We’re in a position to be fairly flexible here, Commander,” Andar said. “We can continue to hold each breastwork for two days, if it’s absolutely necessary, but if it starts to look like the Church armies are going to arrive early, we can skip over a couple of our defense lines to make our time match theirs.”

  “You could be right there, Andar,” Narasan agreed.

  “Our army and theirs need to be closely coordinated,” Andar added, “but, since their people are a little distracted right now, we can take care of the coordination for them, and they’ll be able to concentrate on how they’re going to spend all that gold they’ll have in their purses before very much longer.”

  “I like the way this man thinks,” Longbow said with a broad smile.

  “So do I, now that you mention it,” Narasan agreed, giving Andar a speculative sort of look.

  At sunrise—as always—the voice of the Vlagh roared its command, and the lumbering, awkward new breed of bug-warriors came mindlessly shambling across the open spaces lying between the several now-abandoned breastworks. The amateur Trogite archers held back, but the far more skilled native bowmen unleashed their arrows with a stunning accuracy, and the plodding, mindless attack faltered as the clumsy bug-men were suddenly obliged to clamber over heaps of their dead companions.

  “That’s pure idiocy!” Andar declared in disgust.

  “Actually, it’s about ten steps below idiocy, my friend,” Danal corrected. “In the world of bugs, an idiot would be a genius.”

  “Here come the turtles!” a soldier standing on top of the breastworks shouted.

  “That’s odd,” Danal noted. “We didn’t bother with those poisoned stakes this time, and I was fairly sure that the main job of the spidery turtles involved breaking off the stakes.”

  “Not entirely, Danal,” Andar disagreed. “Their shells also protect them from arrows. It’s quite possible that the Vlagh might have graduated from idiot to imbecile. Go tell the catapult crews to get ready. I’d say that it’s just about time to reintroduce the servants of the Vlagh to the wonderful world of fire.”

  “If that’s how y’ want ’er, Cap’n, that’s how we’ll do ’er,” Danal replied.

  “I think you’ve been spending far too much time with Padan here lately, old friend,” Andar observed.

  A bank of clouds had built up along the western horizon that day, and the sunset was glorious. The Land of Dhrall had many faults, Andar felt, but the beauty of the place was almost heart-stopping. Civilization was all right, perhaps, but it fouled the air to the point that sometimes it was nearly impossible to see across the street.

  The sun was still painting the sky a glorious red when the earnest young Keselo came down to the breastworks. “Good evening, Subcommander,” he greeted Andar rather formally. “Commander Narasan suggested that you might want to consider pulling back to the seventh breastwork tonight.”

  “Suggested?” Andar asked.

  “Well,” Keselo replied, “actually he was issuing a command, but commands aren’t really very polite, so I almost always modify them a bit before I pass them on.”

  “This young fellow’s the only man I know who apologizes to an enemy before he kills him,” Danal said, laughing.

  “I do not, Brigadier Danal,” Keselo protested. “I just try to be polite, that’s all.”

  “What’s the polite way to kill somebody?”

  “You’re supposed to tip your hat first, Brigadier,” Keselo replied with no hint of a smile.

  “I think he just got you, Danal,” Andar noted. Then he looked at Keselo again. “I want a straight answer here, Keselo,” he said. “Things might start getting a bit complicated from here on. Do you think Omago’s men are ready to respond—even if they don’t know exactly what’s going on?”

  “Omago himself will know exactly what to do,” Keselo replied, “and his men have learned to respond to his commands without so much as blinking an eye.”

  “That takes them even beyond professional soldiers,” Danal declared. “How did he manage that?”

  “The farmers all believe—with a certain amount of accuracy—that Omago speaks for Veltan.”

  “And they’re afraid of Veltan?”

  “Not one bit,” Keselo replied firmly. “The only ones who fear Veltan are our enemies.” He paused. “Oh, before I forget, Subcommander,” he said to Andar, “I’m told that there will be fog again, just like there was the last several times your men have pulled back. That’s Lady Zelana’s contribution during this current unpleasantness.”

  “Maybe you should ask her not to waste it,” Danal said with a slight frown. “I’m not exactly sure how she manages to fog things over every time we pull back, but if her supply of fog happens to run dry when we decide to run away, the bug-people or the Church soldiers might realize what we’re doing, and that could cause some serious problems.”

  “She won’t run out, Brigadier,” Keselo assured Andar’s friend. “If she wants something to happen, it will happen—even if it’s impossible.”

  “As long as we’re discussing impossibilities, just who—or what—is going to open a large hole in Gunda’s wall?” Andar asked.

  “As far as I know, Veltan’s going to attend to it, sir.”

  “All by himself?” Andar exclaimed.

  “I’d imagine that his tame thunderbolt will probably take care of it, sir.”

  “How does anybody tame a thunderbolt?”

  “I really wouldn’t know, sir, but I have it on the very best authority that it was Veltan’s thunderbolt that blasted out that channel through the ice zone that gave us access to the Land of Dhrall in about one single day. Gunda’s wall’s very strong, but I’m quite sure it’s not strong enough to stand up in the face of that kind of power.”

  “I’m never going to get used to some of the things that happen in this part of the world,” Andar complained.

  “You worry too much, Andar,” Danal noted. “Miracles are just fine—as long as they’re helping us. It’s when they start helping our enemies that you might want to consider a petition of protest.”

  Just after sunset, when the servants of the Vlagh fell back to the two outermost breastworks, Lady Zelana’s fog-bank came rolling in to conceal the retreat of the Trogites and their local associates. As the fog came rolling in, Commander Narasan came down to the breastworks to confer with Andar. “Using those catapults to set fire to the bug-people turned out to be very effective, Andar,” he said, “but it’s seriously reduced the amount of venom we’ve been able to gather. We really have no way to know just exactly when those Church armies will break through Sorgan’s defenses, so there’s a distinct possibility that we’ll need that venom to help us hold the bug-people back until those five armies arrive.”

  “It’s not really that much of a problem, Narasan,” Andar replied. “Like you said, the native archers are more than capable of stopping the enemies right in their tracks.”

  “You’ve adjusted to the situation here in the Land of Dhrall much more quickly than I did when I first arrived, Andar. When the native people to
ld us what we’d probably encounter up in that ravine, I started having nightmares.”

  “I have a certain advantage, Narasan,” Andar replied. “I don’t have to make those major decision like you do. All I have to do is assume that you know what we should do to defeat the enemy. Any mistakes will be your fault, not mine.”

  “Thanks a lot, Andar.”

  “Don’t mention it,” Andar replied blandly. Then he squinted on down the slope. “I’d say that the fog-bank’s got us pretty well concealed now, Narasan. Why don’t you go on back to Gunda’s wall while I pull my men back? I know what I’m supposed to do, and you’re just getting in my way.”

  “Well pardon me,” Narasan said, sounding slightly offended.

  “I’ll think about it,” Andar replied. “Drop back sometime when I’m not so busy.”

  Danal supervised the emplacement of the catapults early the next morning, and then he reported in. “We’re as ready as we’ll ever be, Andar,” he reported. “I’ll keep an eye on things here. Why don’t you get some sleep?”

  “I’m wound just a little tight for that, Danal,” Andar admitted, “but maybe you’d better tell the men to bed down. I don’t think anything new and different’s going to show up tomorrow, but around here, you never know, so let’s make sure that the men are all sharp.”

  “Right,” Danal agreed, moving off into the foggy darkness.

  The night plodded on with the dense fog dimly illuminated by Lord Dahlaine’s little false sun, and along toward morning Lady Zelana’s little fog-bank dissipated. Andar briefly considered the distinct possibility that the fog was nothing more than an illusion, but he firmly pushed that notion aside. Things were already complicated enough.

  Then a faint line of light appeared along the eastern horizon, and Danal came back along the breastworks. “Time to go to work,” he said quietly. “I don’t think the bug-people are awake yet, but around here, you never know.”