Beyond the Moons

by David Cook

  Rousing Gomja to his feet, Teldin led the sleepy-headed giff upstairs, talking excitedly as he went. “It’s a stroke of luck to meet Vandoorm like that. He’s a mercenary now, moving around from job to job. Tomorrow he’s off to Palanthas to look for work. People say there’s a sage, Astinus, by name, who lives in Palanthas. Maybe he can tell me what’s so special about this cloak. I’m damn well never going to find out here. Curse my cousins and all.”

  “And maybe get me home, sir?” Gomja asked sleepily.

  “I don’t know, Trooper Gomja. Look, I just want to get this cloak off and go back to my farm. Maybe it’s time you were on your own,” Teldin suggested as he reached the second floor landing.

  Gomja looked confused. “But I don’t know were to go.”

  Teldin didn’t have an answer for that. Even though he knew otherwise, the farmer felt obligated to help the giff. The hours of drink swirled in his head and made it hard to think, until he regretted bringing the subject up. “Never mind. Forget about it. Right now you can get some sleep.” Without waiting for the giff, Teldin trudged into the room and collapsed for the night. Gomja was not far behind.

  Chapter Eight

  Teldin sat on the edge of the rumpled bed, his eyes closed in intense concentration. A ray of morning sunlight crept slowly across the dull wooden floor to play on the farmer’s leg. Across the small room, Gomja stood at the washstand, scrubbing his face in the cold water of the basin. The sound of water trickling and dripping mingled with the occasional cries of the vendors from the street below. Gomja began to hum an off-key march, the song droning mournfully. Before the giff had gotten more than a few notes into the song, Teldin flung himself back on the bed in exasperation.

  “Damn! What am I supposed to do with this thing?” Teldin shouted toward the ceiling. He beat his palms in frustration on the moth-chewed blankets, raising a cloud of dust. “I can’t take this damned thing off. 1 can’t even get it to change size, and I know it can do that!” In a decidedly poor mood, Teldin rolled off the bed and paced over to the window, like a fox prowling along the edge of a chicken coop.

  The giff watched the outburst wide-eyed but said nothing, since this had been going on all morning. As a trooper, it wasn’t his place to comment anyway. Keeping one wary eye on the farmer, the giff returned to his ablution.

  “Again,” Teldin said with a forced sigh as he struggled to calm his temper. The human’s eyes closed, brows knitted, and teeth clenched as he translated mental concentration into physical effort. There was a tickle at the back of his neck like the pull of static from a woolen sweater. The tickle grew stronger and ran down his spine, raising the hairs ever so slightly. Teldin stopped and looked at the shimmery fabric that hung from his shoulders. There was no doubt that it was now shorter than before.

  Teldin took a breath and tried again. “Shrink,” he ordered. In his mind, he imagined the cloak as a stubborn mule. The tickling sensation returned and then seemed to reverse, drawing in toward his neck. The cloak was once again a small collar around his neck. “Something’s finally worked right,” he sighed in triumph.

  While the giff finished scrubbing and dressing, Teldin practiced his newfound control, at first hesitantly and then with greater and greater confidence. The cloak grew, shrank, grew, and shrank again. “It works! I think of it like a mule, and it seems to react!” The farmer chortled triumphantly. After so many disasters and disappointments, this small success was elevated to the status of a major victory. Reducing the cloak to little more than a curious necklace, Teldin grabbed his boots and prepared to go.

  From somewhere Trooper Gomja had found an apple and was chewing on it noisily. “Where to now, sir?” the giff asked as he gulped down the last remains, core and all.

  “Weren’t you listening? I’m leaving town, going to Palanthas,” Teldin answered, almost cheerily. “I made arrangements with Vandoorm to meet him at the west gate. There I’ll buy a horse and ride to Palanthas.” Teldin didn’t even bother to look at the giff while he spoke, but he stressed the singular nature of his plans. As soon as the second boot was pulled on, the human sprang to his feet and hurriedly began stuffing his few possessions into a small bundle.

  Gomja began to mimic the human’s packing. He ducked his head under the ceiling beam and set his gear on the bed. With the precision that came from years of military training, the trooper began efficiently stowing his gear. “We, sir?” the giff asked hopefully as he folded the few charts salvaged from the Penumbra’s wreckage.

  Teldin stopped in the midst of cramming his one spare shirt into the bottom of his bag. “Vandoorm and I,” the farmer said quite clearly.

  “I see.” The giff continued packing. His face showed no sign of emotion or distress. “Vandoorm – he’s a mercenary, isn’t he?”

  Teldin slowly resumed packing. “That he is,” was his wary answer. The farmer stowed his gear by touch, his eyes watching the tall giff.

  “Then I will offer my services,” Gomja calmly announced without once looking away from his packing.

  “You will what?”

  “Hire on, sir. He is a mercenary and I am a soldier without a command.” Gomja finally stopped and looked toward Teldin as he calmly explained his own plan. The giff was casually confident in the success of the idea.

  “You will do no such thing! You can just stop following me around and get out of my life,” Teldin sputtered. He grabbed his bundle and violently swung it over his shoulder.

  “Of course, sir,” Gomja answered, still unperturbed by Teldin’s outbursts. The giff continued his methodical packing, tying off the bundle and swinging it over his shoulder. “I’m seeking gainful employment. It’s purely a coincidence that the only person who will hire me is your friend, Vandoorm. Giff are the finest bodyguards and enforcers in all the Known Spheres. Besides, I, too, have questions to ask this Astinus of Palanthas fellow. The sooner I find a way off this world, the farther ‘out of your life’ I’ll be.’ The giff gave a placid, almost serene smile. “I’ll see you at the west gate, sir.”

  Teldin gave a scream, or more properly a bleat, of frustration and buried his face in his hands. “All right, you win! Let’s just go to the gate together.” Very deep down, the human felt a little quiver of relief. Was it because he was coming to like the big brute’s company? Or was it simply a release from the guilt of stranding the giff in Kalaman? Teldin could not tell for sure.

  The pair left quietly, taking care not to disturb the sleeping innkeeper. The man had already been paid, so Teldin saw no need to rouse him. A cat followed them out the door, disappearing down an alley as they walked down the street. The clear sky and morning sun already made for a warm day, but the cool night breeze was still blowing in from the bay.

  Teldin wasted no time making for the main thoroughfare. This broad avenue cut through the heart of Kalaman, straight from the castle to the west gate. Saplings lined the avenue and flowers bloomed down the parklike center. Just before the castle stood a great bronze statue of Lauralanthalasa, the Golden General and liberator of Kalaman, astride her horse. At the far end of the thoroughfare was the great tower of the west gate, looming over the small houses clustered around it. Statue and gate were easily visible anywhere along the length of the boulevard.

  Teldin remembered that when Kalaman was freed from the siege of the draconians, the avenue had been a bleak and cheerless swath, littered with the camps of troops and the homeless. In many ways, it had looked like the park he and Gomja had stumbled into two nights ago. There were the same collections of hovels, the same stripped trees. even the sad and desperate people. Teldin wondered how many in that park had once lived along this green avenue.

  “Sir, who is this Vandoorm anyway?” Gomja asked as they hurried down the street. The giffs voice was muffled by the folds of cloth that covered his head. “Is he a brave commander? I should know before I sign on with him.”

  The lanky farmer briefly considered not answering – or even lying to get the giff in trouble – but chose agai
nst it. The giff might be a nuisance, but he did not deserve that kind of treatment, ‘Vandoorm’s an old soldier, and brave enough, I imagine. I never served under him, so I wouldn’t really know.”

  “Then how do you know him? I assumed you fought under him in the war.” Gomja struggled with the blanket trying to keep it from slipping off his ears.

  Teldin reached up and helped readjust the cloth as they walked. “I met him during the war – at Palanthas when I first came to join up. I was a raw youth —” Teldin stopped to pick his words somewhat carefully, remembering that Trooper Gomja was only sixteen, “Anyway I met Vandoorm in Palanthas. He showed me the way things worked in the army – kept me out of trouble.”

  “He sounds experienced,” the giff offered.

  “That he certainly is – also profane, bawdy, and a few other things besides.” Teldin picked up the pace, worried that he might miss the morning rendezvous. The giff bustled to keep alongside the human, effectively ending their conversation

  “Good morn, Moore!” called out a voice as they neared the gate. The brawny Vandoorm stepped free of the taller men and horses clustered around the fortress wall. “You finally made it. I always thought farmers got up early in the morning, but maybe farming makes you soft, eh?” The squat mercenary’s jibe was good-natured. Clapping Teldin on the shoulder, the shorter man turned back toward the riders and, with a wave of his hand, boastfully introduced them. This is my squadron, the toughest fighters in all of Solamnia.”

  Teldin looked over the twenty or so men who formed Vandoorm’s war band. They were unmistakably mercenaries; some sat tall and proud, others slunk in their saddles, but all were marked by a hard edge in their stares, suspicious eyes chiseled out of stone. Each man was outfitted for battle. There were lances adorned with tattered pennons, shields painted with fanciful designs, and unmatched pieces of armor dyed in brilliant colors and gilt with silver and brass. Swords poked out from under cloaks, bows and quivers hung on the horses’ flanks, spears fit in sockets at the sides of saddles, while other implements of war gave each man an individual and unique armory.

  A few of the riders stood out from the already distinctive group and Teldin took note of them. One, sporting an eyepatch and a mane of black hair, carried two great knives cross-belted over his chain mail shirt. Another, dressed only in simple browns, studied the newcomers as he waxed the string of his long bow. These two, in particular, seemed to stand out from the rest of the group.

  Just as Teldin studied them, the score of riders carefully looked the farmer over. There was no hatred or rancor in their looks, only cool contempt bred by their survival instincts. Finally Vandoorm broke the spell. “We are ready to ride, Moore. Meschior will get a horse for you while you say good-bye to your... companion.” Vandoorm nodded toward the giff.

  “He wants to come along,” Teldin answered tersely, stepping closer to the giff.

  The mercenary captain stopped and looked at Teldin. “That’s not what you said last night,” Vandoorm replied in surprise.

  “Things change,” Teldin answered with a shrug. “Now he wants to come with me.”

  The shorter man puckered his mouth in thought, clearly a little skeptical of the new arrangement. “Come here,” he finally ordered the enormous, cloaked stranger facing him.

  “Yes, sir!” Gomja boomed from within the folds that still covered his face. In true military manner, the giff briskly stepped forward and snapped rigidly to attention. “Trooper Gomja requesting permission to sign on, sir!”

  Looking around the giff, Teldin smiled as Vandoorm arched an eyebrow in surprise. At five feet tall, the captain’s nose barely reached the middle of Gomja’s chest. “Can you use a sword?” Vandoorm finally asked.

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Have you fought in battle?”

  Gomja hesitated for a moment, then decided the Penumbra’s crash counted – sort of. “Yes, sir.”

  “Have you kill a man?”

  Looking dead ahead, avoiding Vandoorm’s gaze, Gomja answered, “No, sir.” The giff stood waiting for more questions, but Vandoorm just let him wait. Instead the captain slowly circled the giff, noting the pudgy, blue-gray hands, the thick legs, and the wide shoulders.

  “I do not know, Teldin. For you I say yes, but first I will ask my lieutenants,” Vandoorm commented as he stopped beside his old friend. “Brun, Meschior, we talk.” Walking away from Teldin, Vandoorm motioned for his two aides to join him. Teldin, not too surprised, noticed that it was the one-eyed man and the archer who joined their captain. The three held a quiet conversation, punctuated by stares at the giff and Teldin and a few sharply pointed fingers. Teldin could not hear what they said, but he guessed from their expressions that it was not going well. When the discussion ended, all three came over, Vandoorm in the lead.

  “Like me, my lieutenants do not like this,” the bearded captain announced, talking mainly to Teldin. “He looks strong, but why does he hide his face?”

  “I told you last night what the Dark Queen did to him,” Teldin quickly offered before the giff might say something else. “It draws too much attention in town, so it’s better if he stays covered up.” Gomja, learning his part, nodded in agreement.

  The answer wasn’t good enough for Vandoorm. “Show me your face,” he demanded, turning to the giff. Gomja turned to ask Teldin, but all the farmer could answer with was a shrug. Reluctantly, the giff slowly opened the folds of the blanket. As he pulled back the cloth just enough for them to see, Vandoorm, Brun, and Meschior pressed close like boys eager to peek into a tavern wench’s bedroom. Getting a view of Gomja’s face, Vandoorm’s eyes widened slightly. The gaze of the other two remained as hard and unreadable as before. Finally, the captain spoke in slow measure. “I see why you cover him up. He would draw attention in town.” He glanced back at Gomja, sizing up the giff up in a new light. With hardly a look at his aides, Vandoorm casually added, “Good fighter, I think. He comes. Get the men ready to ride.” This last was addressed to his lieutenants.

  The mercenary leader turned to Teldin and clapped him on the back. “I do this because you are like a son, Tel. On the trip, you’ll pay me back, I am sure.” He broke into a laugh on seeing the puzzled, panicked look that crossed the farmer’s face. “You take care of my horses, I take care of you. Come now, let’s get you a horse.” Grabbing Teldin by the elbow, Vandoorm led the farmer to the waiting company for instructions. Gomja, pleased with the results, trailed after the two.

  They were quickly underway, but soon the ride became monotonous, just the steady plodding of horse hooves over the dusty road. Even walking alongside, Gomja was able to keep pace fairly well. Outside the city, the giff did away with the hot and stifling blanket over his face. The first appearance of the blue-gray monstrosity in their midst caused considerable consternation among the men at first, but they quickly concealed their surprise and curiosity, except for the occasional watchful glances from the corners of their eyes.

  That night, the group camped in the foothills of the Dargaard Mountains. Somewhere to the south, not too distant, was the ill-omened fortress of Dargaard Keep. Although well inside the borders of Solamnia, The man kept careful watch, mindful of the tales told of Lord Soth and his dark stronghold.

  Finished with his soup of dried peas and herbs, Teldin sat close to the fire. The night sky was clear and the sun’s warmth had quickly drained away, replaced by a cool breeze from the mountains. The campfire provided good protection from the unseasonable chill. Teldin considered producing the cloak but decided against it. He distrusted its powers, for while it was an inanimate thing, it seemed to have the knack of causing more trouble than it solved. Besides, he was just as happy not to be reminded of the cure he wore around his neck. Gomja, ever conscious of danger, sat farther from the fire, carefully positioned to watch the others as much as he could.

  Vandoorm finished his rounds of the men and squatted beside Teldin. “I thought last night you had a cloak – a warm-looking one.” The warrior yawned and picked
at his beard.

  “Yes,” Teldin answered slowly. Although the question was innocent enough, any curiosity about the cloak made Teldin wary. His first instinct was to deny the cloak’s existence, but logically he knew that was impossible.

  “It is foolish to sit in the cold, that is all.” Vandoorm smiled and spread his hands.

  Teldin’s blue eyes narrowed, nervously scanning the captain from head to toe. “It was a cousin’s. I borrowed it and gave it back.”

  “Ah. Do you need a blanket? I have extras for an old friend,” Vandoorm generously offered. When Teldin shook his head, the captain smiled and shrugged. “Always the same. My generosity you do not need.” Vandoorm nodded toward Gomja. “The strange one – you met him in the war?”

  “Sort of” Teldin lied. The tale of Gomja and the Dark Queen was not going to hold up if Vandoorm started asking too many questions. The veteran knew more about the War of the Lance than Teldin and certainly more than Gomja. The farmer did not want to risk their fraud being discovered. “He showed up on my farm, not long after the war. The poor thing doesn’t really remember what happened.”

  “Much better that way,” Vandoorm grunted. “You told him all about us, right? How I am like your father?”

  Teldin chuckled at the captain’s good-humored vanity. “Only a little, Vandoorm. Stories could never do you justice.”

  “Ah, maybe I’ll tell him how I taught you to drink like a real soldier.” the mercenary ribbed as he kicked a log farther into the small fire. “You remember, eh?”

  “Oh, I still remember, Vandoorm. How could I ever forget your lessons?” That drink, a young farmer’s first, was quite unforgettable in Teldin’s mind. Then there were Vandoorm’s lessons in avoiding guard duty, camp life, requisitioning supplies, and whoring. Vandoorm had been an excellent teacher in the practical business of soldiering.

  “They were good times, the war,” Vandoorm said as he stared at the fire. “Not like now – little work for this old soldier.” The mercenary pulled a hair from his beard. “Maybe I’ll become a farmer like you.”