by Glen Cook
We crossed it under the aegis of Whisper and Feather, two of the Taken, the Lady’s black apprentices, both sorceresses orders of magnitude above our three puny wizards. Even so, and travelling with entire armies of the Lady’s regulars, we suffered there. It is a hostile, bitter land where none of the normal rules apply. Rocks speak and whales fly. Coral grows in the desert. Trees walk. And the inhabitants are the strangest of all. … But that is neither here nor there. Just a nightmare from the past. A nightmare that haunts me still, when the screams of Cougar and Fleet come echoing down the corridors of time, and once again I can do nothing to save them.
“What’s the trouble?” Elmo asked, slipping the map from beneath my fingers, cocking his head sideways. “Look like you saw a ghost.”
“Just remembering the Plain of Fear.”
“Oh. Yeah. Well, buck up. Have a beer.” He slapped my back. “Hey! Kingpin! Where the hell you been?” He charged away, in pursuit of the Company’s leading malingerer.
One-Eye arrived a moment later, startling me. “How’s Goblin?” he asked softly. There had been no intercourse between them since Madle’s. He eyed the map. “The Empty Hills? Interesting name.”
“Also called the Hollow Hills. He’s all right. Why don’t you check him out?”
“What the hell for? He was the one who acted the ass. Can’t take a little joke. …”
“Your jokes get a bit rough, One-Eye.”
“Yeah. Maybe. Tell you what. You come with me.”
“Got to prepare my reading.” One night a month the Captain expects me to exhort the troops with a reading from the Annals. So we’ll know where we came from, so we’ll recall our ancestors in the outfit. Once that meant a lot. The Black Company. Last of the Free Companies of Khatovar. All brethren. Tight. Great esprit. Us against the world, and let the world watch out. But the something that had manifested itself in Goblin’s behavior, in the low-grade depression of Elmo and others, was affecting everybody. The pieces were coming unglued.
I had to pick a good reading. From a time when the Company had its back against the wall and survived only by clinging to its traditional virtues. There have been many such moments in four hundred years. I wanted one recorded by one of the more inspired Annalists, one with the fire of a White Rose revivalist speaking to potential recruits. Maybe I needed a series, one that I could read several nights running.
“Crap,” One-Eye said. “You know those books by heart. Always got your nose in them. Anyway, you could fake the whole thing and nobody would know the difference.”
“Probably. And nobody would care if I did. It’s going sour, old-timer. Right. Let’s go see Goblin.”
Maybe the Annals needed a rereading on a different level. Maybe I was treating symptoms. The Annals have a certain mystic quality, for me. Maybe I could identify the disease by immersing myself, hunting something between the lines.
Goblin and Silent were playing no-hands mumbletypeg. I’ll say this for our three spook-pushers: They aren’t great, but they keep their talents polished. Goblin was ahead on points. He was in a good mood. He even nodded to One-Eye.
So. It was over. The stopper could be put into the bottle. One-Eye just had to say the right thing.
To my amazement, he even apologized. By sign, Silent suggested we get out and let them conclude their peace in private. Each had an overabundance of pride.
We stepped outside. As we often did when no one could intercept our signs, we discussed old times. He, too, was privy to the secret for which the Lady would obliterate nations.
Half a dozen others suspected once, and had forgotten. We knew, and would never forget. Those others, if put to the question, would leave the Lady with serious doubts. We two, never. We knew the identity of the Lady’s most potent enemy—and for six years we had done nothing to apprise her of the fact that that enemy even existed as more than a Rebel fantasy.
The Rebel tends to a streak of superstition. He loves prophets and prophecies and grand, dramatic foretellings of victories to come. It was pursuit of a prophecy which led him into the trap at Charm, nearly causing his extinction. He regained his balance afterward by convincing himself that he was the victim of false prophets and prophecies, laid upon him by villains trickier than he. In that conviction he could go on, and believe more impossible things.
The funny thing was, he lied to himself with the truth. I was, perhaps, the only person outside the Lady’s inner circle who knew he had been guided into the jaws of death. Only, the enemy who had done the guiding was not the Lady, as he believed. That enemy was an evil greater still, the Dominator, the Lady’s one-time spouse, whom she had betrayed and left buried but alive in a grave in the Great Forest north of a far city called Oar. From that grave he had reached out, subtly, and twisted the minds of men high in Rebel circles, bending them to his will, hoping to use them to drag the Lady down and bring about his own resurrection. He failed, though he had help from several of the original Taken in his scheme.
If he knew of my existence, I must be high on his list. He lay up there still, scheming, maybe hating me, for I helped betray the Taken helping him. … Scary, that. The Lady was medicine bad enough. The Dominator, though, was the body of which her evil was but a shadow. Or so the legend goes. I sometimes wonder why, if that is true, she walks the earth and he lies restless in the grave.
I have done a good deal of research since discovering the power of the thing in the north, probing little-known histories. Scaring myself each time. The Domination, an era when the Dominator actually ruled, smelled like an era of hell on earth. It seemed a miracle that the White Rose had put him down. A pity she could not have destroyed him. And all his minions, including the Lady, The world would not be in the straits it is today.
I wonder when the honeymoon will end. The Lady hasn’t been that terrible. When will she relax, and give the darkness within her free rein, reviving the terror of the past?
I also wonder about the villainies attributed to the Domination. History, inevitably, is recorded by self-serving victors.
A scream came from Goblin’s quarters. Silent and I stared at one another a moment, then rushed inside,
I honestly expected one of them to be bleeding his life out on the floor. I did not expect to find Goblin having a fit while One-Eye desperately strove to keep him from hurting himself. “Somebody made contact,” One-Eye gasped. “Help me. It’s strong.”
I gaped. Contact. We hadn’t had a direct communication since the desperately swift campaigns when the Rebel was closing in on Charm, years ago. Since then, the Lady and Taken have been content to communicate through messengers.
The fit lasted only seconds. That was customary. Then Goblin relaxed, whimpering. It would be several minutes before he recovered enough to relay the message. We three looked at one another with card-playing faces, frightened inside. I said, “Somebody ought to tell the Captain.”
“Yeah,” One-Eye said. He made no move to go. Neither did Silent.
“All right. I’m elected.” I went. I found the Captain doing what he does best. He had his feet up on his worktable, was snoring. I wakened him, told him.
He sighed. “Find the Lieutenant.” He went to his map cases. I asked a couple questions he ignored, took the hint and got out.
He had expected something like this? There was a crisis in the area? How could Charm have heard first?
Silly, worrying before I heard what Goblin had to say.
The Lieutenant seemed no more surprised than the Captain. “Something up?” I asked.
“Maybe. A courier letter came after you and Candy left for Tally. Said we might be called west. This could be it.”
“West? Really?”
“Yeah.” Such dense sarcasm he put into the word!
Stupid. If we chose Charm as the customary demarcation point between east and west, Tally lay two thousand plus miles away. Three months’ travel under perfect conditions. The country between was anything but perfect. In places roads just didn’t exist. I thought
six months sounded too optimistic.
But I was worrying before the fact again. I had to wait and see.
It turned out to be something even the Captain and Lieutenant hadn’t anticipated.
We waited in trepidation while Goblin pulled himself together. The Captain had his map case open, sketching a tentative route to Frost. He grumbled because all westbound traffic had to cross the Plain of Fear. Goblin cleared his throat.
Tension mounted. He did not lift his eyes. The news had to be unpleasant. He squeaked, “We’ve been recalled. That was the Lady. She seemed disturbed. The first leg goes to Frost. One of the Taken will meet us there. He’ll take us on to the Barrowland.”
The others frowned, exchanged puzzled looks. I muttered, “Shit. Holy Shit.”
“What is it, Croaker?” the Captain asked.
They didn’t know. They paid no attention to historical things. “That’s where the Dominator is buried. Where they all were buried, back when. It’s in the forest north of Oar.” We’d been to Oar seven years ago. It was not a friendly city.
“Oar!” the Captain yelled. “Oar! That’s twenty-five hundred miles!”
“Add another hundred or two to the Barrowland.”
He stared at the maps. “Great. Just great. That means not just the Plain of Fear but the Empty Hills and the Windy Country too. Just fandamntastic great. I suppose we’ve got to get there next week?”
Goblin shook his head. “She didn’t seem rushed, Captain. Just upset and wanting us headed the right way.”
“She give you any whys or wherefores?”
Goblin smirked. Did the Lady ever? Hell, no.
“Just like that,” the Captain muttered. “Out of the blue. Orders to hike halfway around the world. I love it.” He told the Lieutenant to begin preparations for movement.
It was bad news, mad news, insanity squared, but not as bad as he made out. He had been preparing since receiving the courier letter. It wasn’t that hard to get rolling. The trouble was, nobody wanted to roll.
The west was far nicer than anything we’d known out here, but not so great anybody wanted to walk that far.
Surely she could have summoned a closer unit?
We are the victims of our own competence. She always wants us where the going threatens to become toughest. She knows we will do the best job.
Damn and double damn.
Juniper: Night Work
Shed had given Krage only nine of ten leva. The coin he held back bought firewood, wine, and beer to replenish his stocks. Then other creditors caught wind of his prosperity. A slight upturn in business did him no good. He met his next payment to Krage by borrowing from a moneylender named Gilbert.
He found himself wishing somebody would die. Another ten leva would put him in striking distance of getting through the winter.
It was a hard one, that winter. Nothing moved in the harbor. There was no work in the Buskin. Shed’s only bit of good fortune was Asa. Asa brought wood whenever he got away from Krage, in a pathetic effort to buy a friend.
Asa arrived with a load. Privately, he said, “Better watch out, Shed. Krage heard about you borrowing from Gilbert.” Shed went grey. “He’s got a buyer for the Lily lined up. They’re rounding up girls already.”
Shed nodded. The whoremasters recruited desperate women this time of year. By the time summer brought its sailors, they were broken to their trade.
“The bastard. Made me think he’d given me a break. I should have known better. This way he gets my money and my place. The bastard.”
“Well, I warned you.”
“Yeah. Thanks, Asa.”
Shed’s next due date came on like a juggernaut. Gilbert refused him another loan. Smaller creditors besieged the Lily. Krage was aiming them Shed’s way.
He took Raven a complimentary drink. “May I sit?”
A hint of a smile crossed Raven’s lips. “It’s your place.” And: “You haven’t been friendly lately, Shed.”
“I’m nervous,” Shed lied. Raven irritated his conscience. “Worried about my debts.”
Raven saw through the excuse. “You thought maybe I could help?”
Shed almost groaned. “Yes.”
Raven laughed softly. Shed thought he detected a note of triumph. “All right, Shed. Tonight?”
Shed pictured his mother being carted off by the Custodians. He swallowed his self-disgust. “Yeah.”
“All right. But this time you’re a helper, not a partner.” Shed swallowed and nodded. “Put the old woman to bed, then come back downstairs. Understand?”
“Yes,” Shed whispered.
“Good. Now go away. You irritate me.”
“Yes, sir.” Shed retreated. He couldn’t look anyone in the eye the rest of that day.
A bitter wind howled down the Port valley, freckled with flakes of snow. Shed huddled miserably, the wagon seat a bar of ice beneath him. The weather was worsening. “Why tonight?” he grumbled.
“Best time.” Raven’s teeth chattered. “We’re not likely to be seen.” He turned into Chandler’s Lane, off which innumerable narrow alleyways ran. “Good hunting territory here. In this weather they crawl back in the alleys and die like flies.”
Shed shivered. He was too old for this. But that was why he was here. So he wouldn’t have to face the weather every night.
Raven stopped the wagon. “Check that passageway.”
Shed’s feet started aching the instant he put weight on them. Good. At least he felt something. They weren’t frozen.
There was little light in the alley. He searched more by feel than sight. He found one lump under an overhang, but it stirred and muttered. He ran.
He reached the wagon as Raven dumped something into the bed. Shed averted his eyes. The boy couldn’t have been more than twelve. Raven concealed the body with straw. “That’s one. Night like this, we ought to find a load.”
Shed choked his protests, resumed his seat. He thought about his mother. She wouldn’t last one night in this.
Next alley he found his first corpse. The old man had fallen and frozen because he couldn’t get up again. Aching in his soul, Shed dragged the body to the wagon.
“Going to be a good night,” Raven observed. “No competition. The Custodians won’t come out in this.” Softly: “I hope we can make the hill.”
Later, after they had moved to the waterfront and each had found another corpse, Shed asked, “Why’re you doing this?”
“I need money, too. Got a long way to travel. This way I get a lot, fast, without much risk.”
Shed thought the risks far greater than Raven would admit. They could be torn apart. “You’re not from Juniper, are you?”
“From the south. A shipwrecked sailor.”
Shed did not believe it. Raven’s accent was not at all right for that, mild though it was. He hadn’t the nerve to call the man a liar, though, and press for the truth.
The conversation continued by fits and starts. Shed didn’t uncover anything more of Raven’s background or motives.
“Go that way,” Raven told him. “I’ll check over here. Last stop, Shed. I’m done in.”
Shed nodded. He wanted to get the night over. To his disgust, he had begun seeing the street people as objects, and he hated them for dying in such damned inconvenient places.
He heard a soft call, turned back quickly. Raven had one. That was enough. He ran to the wagon.
Raven was on the seat, waiting. Shed scrambled up, huddled, tucked his face away from the wind. Raven kicked the mules into motion.
The wagon was halfway across the bridge over the Port when Shed heard a moan. “What?” One of the bodies was moving! “Oh. Oh, shit, Raven. …”
“He’s going to die anyway.”
Shed huddled back down, stared at the buildings on the north bank. He wanted to argue, wanted to fight, wanted to do anything to deny his part in this atrocity.
He looked up an hour later and recognized nothing. A few large houses flanked the road, widely spaced
, their windows dark. “Where are we?”
“Almost there. Half an hour, unless the road is too icy.”
Shed imagined the wagon sliding into a ditch. What then? Abandon everything and hope the rig couldn’t be traced? Fear replaced loathing.
Then he realized where they were. There wasn’t anything up here but that accursed black castle. “Raven. …”
“What’s the matter?”
“You’re headed for the black castle.”
“Where’d you think we were going?”
“People live there?”
“Yes. What’s your problem?”
Raven was a foreigner. He couldn’t understand how the black castle affected Juniper. People who got too close disappeared. Juniper preferred to pretend that the place did not exist.
Shed stammered out his fears. Raven shrugged. “Shows your ignorance.”
Shed saw the castle’s dark shape through the snow. The fall was lighter on the ridge, but the wind was more fierce. Resigned, he muttered, “Let’s get it over with.”
The shape resolved into battlements, spires, towers. Not a light shown anywhere. Raven halted before a tall gate, went forward on foot. He banged a heavy knocker. Shed huddled, hoping there would be no response.
The gate opened immediately. Raven scrambled onto the wagon’s seat. “Get up, mules.”
“You’re not going inside?”
“Why not?”
“Hey. No way. No.”
“Shut up, Shed. You want your money, you help unload.”
Shed stifled a whimper. He hadn’t bargained for this.
Raven drove through the gate, turned right, halted beneath a broad arch. A single lantern battled the darkness clotting the passageway. Raven swung down. Shed followed, his nerves shrieking. They dragged the bodies out of the wagon and swung them onto stone slabs nearby. Then Raven said, “Get back on the wagon. Keep your mouth shut.”
The one body stirred. Shed grunted. Raven pinched his leg savagely. “Shut up.”