by Wilf Jones
‘This child was born in the middle of the maelstrom. All around was violence and death and yet he survived. His mother was dead and yet she gave him suck. There were no arms to hold him close and yet he found the strength to feed. There was something else looking after him, Seama, some power that was looking after us all. I will say it: the name of Ohr’mazd was in my mind. I did not know why then, but I do know now. There is something important about this child, Seama. His birth was some sort of redemption for that terrible day. I only hope I can survive long enough to see what it all means. The gods have a plan for him, I know it. They wanted him to live and they want us to live, just to protect him.
‘And to protect him I need to become well. I know that, and the little one knows it too. When we left the village – as leave we must because we could not bury the dead – I had to choose a direction. For all I knew the Black Company were still in the region. I guessed that they would have gone on to attack more of the villages in the North of the Skirt. My plan, poor though it may now seem, was to make for Gothery. Ciudad Valdez seemed too far, given the state we were in. I was wrong. We found one of the Valdana field camps yesterday – that’s where we found provision – and they were very kind, but all were men. I couldn’t let Carla see them. I made her stay in the wagon and we left as soon as we could. But, of course, that was when I heard that the Company had actually gone south, and that the Morredans were arming for battle with them. They say the Morredans are very strong, impossible to fight. Maybe this time the Black Company and their demons will have not done so well.
‘So my choice of where to go, Gothery or Valdez, would seem to have been irrelevant. We all make decisions and act upon them. Or that is what I would have said before the baby came. My actions are my own for good or bad. That is what I would have said. But now it seems to me I was meant to come this way; that we, you and me, were meant to meet, and there is deep purpose behind all the events that surround this child. What would you say to that?’
Seama raised his eyebrows. ‘Predestination isn’t taught on Errensea as you know, but we have documented the manipulation of men and women by greater powers for purposes entirely their own. Rarely is such contact to the benefit of mankind. I would be wary of anything that seemed orchestrated in the events of my life. But that is the Collegium in me and we are a sceptical lot. Travel to Lindis and you’ll get a different interpretation. Many different interpretations. Perhaps you should follow your own instincts whatever anyone else might say.’
Bassalo looked neither pleased nor annoyed by Seama’s speech. He knew the Collegium’s position on this.
‘My own instinct,’ said Bassalo, ‘tells me I am right and that I have a task. There is a reason I am still alive and that reason is the baby. But in order to perform my task I need healing.’
‘Signoren, as I said, I have no ability to direct my power—’
‘You need not direct it, only supply it.’
‘You want me to lend you—’
‘Give me. We both know I could not return what I take. My own power is very limited and less now than it was, but I can use the power to heal. Can we not try?’
Seama was taken aback by this request. In all his long life no one had asked such a thing. He had never considered the idea. But Healers did this all the time didn’t they? Was his power so precious, his need for strength so crucial that he couldn’t afford to give any of it away? He looked at Carla. The child was tired from her weeping and her care for the baby and her efforts for the Signoren and the boy, and so her eyelids kept dropping as the adults talked and talked, as she allowed the adults to speak. But she wouldn’t let them close entirely, and she wouldn’t let the wizard leave until she had what she wanted.
Seama had made his decision. If that small child could offer so much, at such cost to herself, then how could he even think about refusing her anything?
‘It was well done, Seama,’ said Sigrid as she handed him his portion of ham on black bread.
‘How did you know what I was thinking?’
‘How could you be thinking of anything else? Was it unpleasant? You seemed to be in pain.’
‘Unpleasant? Well no, not unpleasant or even painful, but odd. It was like being bled. I had a thought that it wouldn’t stop.’
‘Blood comes back after a loss. Is it the same with your magic?’
‘Well the magic is not finite. The healing left me tired as Tumboll left me tired but I expect that by tomorrow I will hardly remember it. So, yes, I suppose it is a little like blood. And given that, I find it strange that I ever even considered saying no to him. She shamed me into it.’
Sigrid looked cross. ‘There’s no need to go talking about shame. You could see their need and you agreed to help. If shame is involved anywhere it’s the shame of mankind that such brutality could happen in the first place. That it could be enjoyed. Where do we get this from?’
‘We? We’re not anything like the Black Company. Nonsense. They are evil. Most of us are not.’
‘But I like fighting, Seama. And not because I can make everything right by fighting but because I’m good at it. I like to win. And when you use a sword winning means hurting someone.’
‘But you wouldn’t attack an innocent child, an unarmed man. You wouldn’t enjoy the suffering of others. We should just stick to what we know, Sig, and what we understand and how we understand it. I recognize evil whenever I see it, and my job is to deal with it.’
Sigrid grimaced in reply. ‘Don’t you sometimes think that a really good job would be spending your time looking after children, watching them grow and keeping them safe. Like Bassalo.’
‘I sometimes think nearly anything and everything it is possible to think. And yes there have been moments. But I know myself. Raising children, teaching children, both so important, but not what I was made for. So.’ He bit into his black bread and chewed. Sigrid did the same. After a minute or so Seama said: ‘I note that you and ‘Berta are still with us. No sign of you wanting to leave the company. Weren’t you supposed to be travelling north into Drafas and Kellestan?’
Sigrid grimaced once more. ‘Let’s just say, Seama, that there are things that you should do as a matter of duty and things that you have to do. I promised Carla those men would be stopped. ‘Berta agrees. So I think Mador’s mission will have to wait. Do you object?’
‘No Sigrid. Some tasks are more important than others. I would have been sorry to lose you, but I do wonder if the consequences will be all good. You won’t be going north and so the north will make up its mind without Mador’s influence. However, I’ve spoken to Bassalo at some length about the situation and he’s agreed that Ciudad Valdez would be his best destination. I know that Valdez has a very good healer wizard in Rudolfo and Angren has mentioned someone called Hebog in Terremark if necessary. Bassalo has promised that on his way he’ll speak with Valdez in my stead.’
‘Does Bassalo still need a healer after what you did?’
‘Very much. He has managed the first steps on a long path, there is far to go. At least the journey is now possible.’
Next morning they set off before dawn had fully taken hold. The first part of their journey would take them across the Middle-Way, a busy thoroughfare by the standards of the day. They hoped that an early start and a route taking them halfway between two of the regular way-stops would give them a chance of crossing unseen. And it was a good chance too: with the way-stops a measured thirty miles apart, any merchant’s team setting off after breakfast would reach the halfway point by eleven at the earliest. The real trick would be in trying to avoid the fast post riders. They were frequent travellers and their journeys were not governed by set schedules but by need. A rider could pass through at any time and it was certain that any party he saw journeying off the main road would be a matter of report to someone, somewhere down the line.
It was a risk
they must take. They were making for the Eastern Forest and the Beltesian Estate of Moreda to see how the Black Company had fared in their latest venture. Badly, they hoped. The road to Moreda should normally have found them back in Gothery, travelling south along the Edge Road and then down from the plateau at Hocha’s Knife, a cut in the precipice of the southern plateau made by a forceful stream in a dyke of soft rock. That was the easy route. Even the descent at the Knife was better than it might sound, but Seama wouldn’t go that way: it added-in both miles of extra travel and a great deal of unavoidable exposure. Instead they would travel due south, cross the Middle-way, cut through the edge of the Eastern Waste and enter the forest some thirty miles north of the Estate. An inhospitable and uncomfortable route, without doubt, but direct and almost certainly deserted.
It was not yet midmorning when they reached the highway. They might have hoped for some form of cover but their luck wasn’t in. The terrain here was wide and flat and largely treeless. The company decided that nothing could help them more than speed and hope, but as they neared the road their hope proved rootless. A cohort of Gotherian soldiers came charging down on them from the east. This was the last thing Seama had expected. Quickly leading the company onto the highway and pointing their noses towards Gothery and the approaching troop, he hoped to give the impression they were a company re-joining the highway after a brief rest by the roadside.
For all the attention given them they needn’t have bothered. The sweating horses pounded past in single file, kicking up a great cloud of choking dust, and without ever altering speed they galloped on into the West and were soon small in their sight once more.
Between coughs Angren cursed them.
‘What d’you suppose those bastards are up to, Seama?’
‘I really don’t know, Angren, but I wish I did. If it was a mission to Garassa from Astoril then I must wonder who sent them and why. By all accounts, Sirl is far too ill to be doing anything. But we don’t have the time or means to find out. So, let’s get off this road before anyone else turns up.’
The even, green South Valdesian plain stretched before them under a grey sky. Gradually the few trees that provided focus and contrast became even fewer and grew stunted. Camp that night was a quiet affair. They had stopped by a small river that wriggled a path down from the distant edge of the Gotherian plateau and out onto the plain to finally disappear into nothing on the northern edge of the Waste. The company knew nothing of its source or its eventual fate but the river was a welcome find. The horses were unburdened, rubbed down and well watered; rolls were laid out, some food was eaten and they quickly got down to sleep.
In the morning there was discussion about their forward route. Angren told them that finding water along the way was unlikely and he worried the horses might not cope.
‘It’s not just the dry lands, and there’s three days of that, but even when we get to the forest there’s no telling how long we’ll go without finding a stream.’
He was amazed then, and almost impressed, when Terrance announced that water would not be a problem, producing from his bags a clutch of cleaned and cured pigs’ bladders.
‘Here we are, one for each of you. I’d thought we might end up coming this way so I bought these in Dreffield. It’ll be extra weight for the horses but worth it I think.’
‘Good idea that,’ Angren admitted.
‘Thank you. The nomads do it except they use ox bladders.’
‘But you preferred pig.’
‘Just a matter of what I could get. They use them for footballs.’
‘The nomads?’
‘No, fool: back in Dreffield. An energetic sort of game but a bit brutal. I think the Spurladians invented the rules but they play it all over Gothery now and in some of the northern Parts. A hundred people a side, five balls and scant regard for anyone who gets in the way. Quite an event to witness providing you can keep yourself out of the ruck. You should try it sometime. I think it’d suit you.’
‘You could be right. Let’s hope I get the chance one day.’
Within a few hours of diligent plodding by the doubly burdened horses they found themselves under a blazing sun in a country where nothing but yellow grasses could survive. The transition seemed sudden. It was as though the Waste had sneaked up on them as they rode. Facing the company now a drying, salt choked prairie whose scarce energy was withdrawing from the fierce summer heat – a prairie desperately awaiting that first cloud, those first pattering drops of the season’s close. They were all glad of Terrance’s forward planning.
And they were thirsty after only a few hours. The heat was bearable but a wind, dry as bones, scoured the plain, filling the air with dust. It stung their eyes and clogged their throats. The constant rush deafened them and stifled conversation. They covered as much of their faces as possible with scarves and kerchiefs but the dust was fine and invasive.
This was not a settled part of Aegarde, for obvious reasons, but there were several groups of nomads – ancient cousins to the Drafasians – who made a living following the vast herds of bison that roamed the plain. They killed the beasts for food and for hide to trade in kinder settlements farther west. They had no name for this land other than ‘le plan-visent’, the plain of bison, but it was all things to them: home, nurture, succour; it was to them the greater part of the world and anything beyond le plan-visent was quite insignificant; it was to them the spiritual source of everything they were: when they prayed they prayed to the mothering sky and the father earth. They knew themselves as ‘the children of the sky’ while those who met them named them ‘the plan-visents’. Maps in Garassa marked off this land as The Eastern Waste. To the Aegardean court the Waste, Eastern and Central, was as unconsidered a space as ever could be.
According to plan, the companions saw no one. Their route was so lonely it was hard to believe that men ever travelled there. Even the scavengers of the air, the petty vultures of the plan-visent, were few and far off: they would come closer only if the party stopped for too long in the heat of the day. That evening Angren spied a dust cloud against the setting sun and everyone was excited at the prospect of seeing something more than grass or sky, but as they watched it dwindled in the distance. If it was one of the great herds then it was moving away from them. Closer to hand, a solitary gopher, sniffing the air, unaware of their presence for a few seconds before disappearing into its burrow, seemed to emphasise the desolation. It was the one land creature they had seen all day. Of course there was life aplenty if they had taken the time to look, hidden from them by the grass and the dust and their need to stay on the move. If there were gophers then there must be spiders and snakes, beetles and ants, lizards and scorpions and a hundred other creatures they knew nothing of.
The waste, however, had one overriding, overarching and unmissable glory. The clouds that had dogged their Gotherian miles had no power to intrude upon this plain, and so the night – a sudden night – came on like a celebration. Crowded in the clear sky were the jewelled millions of infinity to lift their souls: stars in strings and spirals, clusters and solitaires, achingly bright and beckoning. What made the stars seem more imminent it was hard to say. The lack of trees, the lack of all moisture in the air, scoured by the wind, the contrast with the un-forgiving dreary daylight hours, all must have made their contribution, but actually none of that mattered. Why question what it is that creates beauty and majesty and glory? What matters is the beauty itself. Angren had experienced the prairie sky a number of times but now somehow it seemed greater than ever before. He lay on his back and drowned at once in the sky’s bottomless ocean. All thoughts of the world left him; the never-ending susurration of the wind released him; the self-consuming distance drew him. He was not sure how much sleep he managed on that first night, but dawn was an unpleasant shock, and the day of toil ahead was not a happy prospect.
Their journey dragged on through the barren
land. Nothing of interest happened, no one spoke more than a few words all day. It was a journey to be suffered not enjoyed.
But snuggled in the tall grass, at the end of that second day, after food and water had eased dry throats, conversations started and stopped and started again, shaped by the gusty wind. Sigrid listened-in but she wasn’t really in the mood for idle chatter. All day long she’d been thinking of little Carla and the evening rest changed nothing. She found herself wavering between anger and tears and… and something else she couldn’t identify. Excusing herself she took a walk away from the camp, seeking solitude, hoping to think it all through, wanting to get it straight. It wasn’t to be. The noise and power of the wind muddled her thoughts, she paid no heed to where she wandered, her intentions slipped away. She became confounded and entranced by a world of the senses: buffeted by the wind, cooler now than in the curse of the day, the fresh, stinging air making her eyes weep again, a caress almost bruising her cheeks; the grass stems all around, tangling her legs, impertinent, familiar ghost fingers barely seen in the starlight; and above everything the stars. The prairie claimed her. Suddenly war, desire, tragedy, all had no meaning. Could good or evil alter this moment, this feeling? Any of it? The question had no answer. Questions and answers had no coherence in the face of raw creation. Time was lost to her, there was only motion, her limbs working in the flow, and sight! Again and again she gazed into the monstrous depths above, below, beyond.
‘Magnificent,’ she breathed, staring into infinity hardly aware she spoke.
‘Well thank you very much. I am quite impressive, I’d agree.’
It was a shock. She felt dizzy. And annoyed.
‘The stars, idiot!’ Trust Angren to spoil the moment.
