by Robert Beers
The old Wizard loosed another sigh, “And that is, as they say, that.” He looked at Alten again, “What am I going to do?”
Alten crossed his arms. “Well, for one thing, you're going to start acting like an adult instead of a toddler who's lost his favorite toy.”
“What?” Milward's expression showed his shock.
“You heard me.” Alten put his cup onto one of the crates next to the reading desk. “How old are you?”
“What's that have to do with all this?”
“Just answer the question, you old crank. How old are you?”
“You are an incurable busybody sometimes, do you know that?” Milward glared at his friend.
Alten shrugged, “It's one of my most redeeming traits. How old are you?”
“Two thousand two hundred and thirteen years old, give or take a month or two. What of it?” The Wizard's glare remained.
“A fine crop of years; seems to me there must have been a few times among them where things didn't go exactly the way you had them planned out, hmm? What did you do then, whimper and whine, or did you think your way out of it? Maybe try and see if there was another way to get the same thing accomplished?” Alten picked up his cup and sipped the last of his tisane.
Milward stared at his old friend for a long, long moment.
“Makes you think a bit, doesn't it?” Alten pursed his lips and waggled his eyebrows.
The stare continued for a moment longer and then the old Wizard slapped his forehead. “What an idiot I've been!”
“Don't look to me for disagreement.”
The Wizard ignored his friend's acerbic commentary. “This might even work out for the better. He's certainly not in much danger, not with his abilities. If anyone attacks him that's their problem.”
He sat on one of the crates and touched a forefinger to his moustache. “You know, I might even be better able to help him because of this. He did have a tendency to buck against the reins, as it were. A stubborn lad, I have no idea where he picked that up.”
“What do you plan on doing, skulk through the shadows and offer suggestions from dark alleys?” Alten snickered.
“Don't be snide,” Milward shot a brief glare in his friend's direction. “What I'm talking about is keeping an eye on the lad and those around him. A word in an ear here, a small shaping there, possibly creating a situation where he needs to do a bit of shaping...? Yes, I can see a lot of possibilities. Thank you, Alten, you've cheered me considerably.”
Alten nodded, “You're welcome, I think.”
“Of course I am. Now, what does this Dwarf volume have to do with my apprentice?”
Shorn of his depression Milward quickly reverted to his normal personality. Officious, overbearing and impatient, but Alten took it in stride. “Quite a lot, I think. As you know even though they have an unhealthy affection toward practical jokes, Dwarfish writing can be a bit dry.”
“A bit dry? I've seen wetter deserts.”
Alten chuckled, “Point taken. This passage in particular I think bears some attention.”
The beginnings of the troubles, when the humans choose sides, twill be known by the darkening of the moon and the coming of the shadow that fades the sun.In the roots of the earth, in the cool of the rock, will the children hide; yet the destroyer feeds. Only by the promised ones, mark well their coming, for they foretell both hope and despair by the blood of Labad, if honor is kept.
“If honor is kept? What in Bardoc's name does that mean?” Milward took the volume from the desk and reread over the passage.
Alten's mouth twitched in a grimace. “Don't know, unless it has something to do with the Dwarves in general or a Dwarf in particular, but as you can see; your apprentice and his sister are there. Unless there are some others running around the land with Labad's blood in them.”
Milward put the Dwarf prophecy back onto the reading desk, “We can be assured there are none, as far as I've been able to tell.”
“I thought as much.” Alten turned a page in the volume. “This prophecy, if you can believe it, is even drearier further on. It tells about the war enveloping the entire world. It becomes a war between light and shadow with a large portion of this world joining the side of the shadow. Listen to this,
“Some follow the seduction of their dark lustings, forsaking the honor of clan and sept for the gleam of promised power. Those will offer their own upon the altar built by the dark priests whose robes drip red with the blood of innocents. From the Well of Sorrows flows the black breath of Luusticles, Father of Darkness. To the well the three go, sword, event and bow. A third will fall, a third will find, a third will mourn. Find ye the king, the true born."
“Adam and Charity are most likely in this passage, but who is the third? And why is it called event?” Milward rubbed his chin through his beard as he paced back and forth in the small open space allowed by the crates.
Alten closed the book of Dwarf prophecy. “I'd like to know that myself.”
* * * *
Sparks flew briefly with fireflies as the campfire flared under the proddings of the twig held in Sergeant Travers’ hand.
“As long as I live, I'll never forget the sight of that arrow stuck between the halves of the first one.” He stirred the coals one last time.
“She cheated. Hadda be a cheat. Ain't no one able ta shoot like that. No one, specially not a skirt,” one of the troopers off to Travers’ right muttered into the glow of the fire.
“Let it go, Murt,” The one sitting across the fire from the mutterer growled. “You saw the shot, same as I did. Twern't no cheat, an’ iffn you'da bet the right way you wouldn't be whinin’ like a dog whose lost his bone.”
Murt glowered at the speaker from beneath brows that met in the middle. Below them, his nose, not his prettiest feature, wrinkled in disgust, “Look o's talkin', you'll be spendin’ a mess'o me own coin, I'm sure. Bettin’ agin’ yer kind like that, oughta be ashamed. Hadda be a cheat, hadda.”
“How?”
The simple question brought a surprised look from the mutterer and then a glare, “You Derrl-Gynic? You takin’ the witch's side too? You turnin’ on yer own now?”
Derrl-Gynic picked up one of the smaller branches they were using to feed the fire and drew an arc in the ground before him. “That's no answer to what I asked, Murt and you know it. So, I'll ask it again. How? How'd she cheat? Are you so blind stubborn you can't believe your own eyes? Or are you just stupid?” He tossed the stick in Murt's direction.
The muffled laughter coming from the other troopers around the fire did nothing for Murt's rapidly dissolving humor. He snatched the stick from where it landed and stuck one end into the coals. “Hadda be a cheat or a trick at least, hadda be,” He continued his muttering while he poked around the campfire with the stick until the tip burst into flame.
One of the troopers, who also bet on Charity's prowess, felt something rub against his backside. “Ere, wot? Oy! It's the lady's kitty. Whotcho want missy, summat to eat?” He pulled a scrap off the game bird carcass he was watching over and tossed it to the cat that neatly snagged it out of the air.
“You see that? She's got an eye just like ‘er missus. Here ya go girl, have another,” he reached out to pull a bit more off the bird but a hand roughly shoved it away.
“Leave off! Iffn that cat wants ta eat she kin hunt it up herself,” Murt snarled at the trooper.
“Leave off yerself, Murt. That cat ain't responsible for you bettin’ the wrong way.” The trooper slapped Murt's hand out of the way and pinched off another snack for the cat. She rewarded his kindness with a rumbling purr as she ate.
With a snarl Murt surged to his feet and brandished the flaming stick as if it were a sword. “That bloody cat ain't gonna get none'a me supper nohow. Half'a me coin's in that flickin’ skirt's purse, ain't none'a me bird goin’ inta that skruddin’ cat!” He jammed the stick at the cat as she worked on finishing the scrap of meat.
The glowing end caught her on the left haunch
and she leapt away from the camp circle with a howl of rage and fright.
Her reaction only fed Murt's rage and he chased after the cat yelling epithets. The rest of the troop around the fire came to their feet with Travers in the lead, calling the trooper to hold at attention. Murt ignored the Sergeant's commands as he chased the cat up a tree. He also failed to see Charity vectoring in from his right side at a dead run. Flynn and Neely came in from the other side.
Flynn slapped one of his ham-sized hands onto Travers’ shoulder, jerking the Sergeant to an abrupt halt, “Let ‘em be Sergeant, He's earned what's comin’ to ‘im.”
“But ... he'll kill her. I've seen Murt in a rage before, the man's an animal when he's like that.”
Flynn clucked his tongue, “Naw, he'll be just a warm-up. Mark me words, worry ‘bout yer man instead.”
Neely came up beside them as Charity reached the trooper. “This oughta be good, I never liked th’ look o’ th’ man anyroad.”
“Bleedin’ cat, climbin’ that tree ain't gonna save ya,” Murt pulled his knife and cocked his arm to throw it.
“Aaagghh!!” The sound of his wrist snapping was audible across the camp.
The force of Charity's kick spun her in a circle. She allowed the spin to carry her around and planted the heel of her free foot into the trooper's midsection, doubling him over and leaving him on his knees, retching.
“Hold! You've beaten him, it's over,” Travers bucked against the restraining hands of Flynn and Neely.
“She ain't listenin’ Sarge, he should'na tried ta kill ‘er cat,” Flynn rumbled.
Murt tried to rise up but a heel from Charity into his kidneys slammed him back to the ground. “Mercy,” he gasped in both fear and pain, “mercy, please.”
“Here's your mercy, you sadistic bastard.” She raised her foot and brought it down with all the force she could muster.
“Oooooo!” Neely winced, “'E's got a right ta scream on that one.”
“Told ya so,” Flynn said to Travers as the trooper's cries worked their way down the scale into whimpers, “she luvs that cat.”
The Sergeant and another of his men helped Murt to his feet.
Neely looked back at the campfire and his eyes centered onto the remains of the roasted game bird, “You hungry Flynn?”
* * * *
Something was tickling his nose. He allowed the sensation to continue for a moment more and then absorbed the small life contained in what ever was doing the tickling. Though tasty enough, it was not sufficient to satisfy the hunger growling within. In addition to being ravenous, the beautiful pain was missing; McCabe had mixed feelings concerning that. On one hand, it meant he was able to rise and move about, as well as find a source of food. On the other ... the agony of his injuries had felt sooo good. Ah well, he would accomplish nothing by just lying there.
The voices came again as soon as he thought about getting up. East, go east, they insisted. The lesson on the power he desired still echoed in his mind and east was where it would be gained. McCabe looked around at the landscape where he had landed. As far as the eye could see in all directions the tops of grasses moved in the slight breeze. Shades of green with tints of brown flowed in rippling waves throughout the verdant sea. The pungent smell of rich earth wafted across his nose as he cast his senses in an effort to get a bearing on where he'd landed. It appeared to be the part of the world called the Forever Grass, a vast prairie stretching from coast to coast between the northernmost end of the Spine of the World and the beginning of the Frozen Waste. His senses told him he was approximately twenty miles to the west of the narrow neck of land leading into the peninsula where the ruins of Verkuyl lay moldering on its northern shore.
McCabe stood in the center of the shallow crater caused by his fall. The mere fact of his survival reinforced the impression he'd gotten earlier, in his rather pointed argument with the Duke, that he was now immune to death. He could still be hurt, thankfully. Some pleasures he was loath to give up. Death was not one of them. Again the voices clamored, so he amended that last thought, his death was not one of them. If the satisfaction of his new existence lay in the killing of the entire world ... well, that was just too bad.
Climbing out of the crater, he giggled as the thought of draining whole cities came to him. Early on, when he was young, some of the children living in the same dismal neighborhood as he did teased him about his laugh, they said it sounded like a girl's. He would revisit that street some day, and see if they could tease him while they screamed.
East, go east. Now! McCabe shook his head with the mental effort it took to force the voices back. Then he shrugged, east was as good a direction as any, but if he went that way it would be his choice. He began walking, the prairie grass parting like water before him.
Near the end of the day, with the sun split by the horizon, he came upon a gully cutting its way eastward through the soil. The gap it formed was too wide to jump and too deep to just step into. It looked to be formed by runoff. Even now there was a thin trickle flowing down the middle. Animals, especially those living in the heart of the prairie, seek out water. If he followed the gulch there was a good chance of coming across a snack or two, perhaps even a full meal.
Unmindful of the good twelve-foot drop, he stepped off the edge and fell into the gully. He landed lightly, slightly disappointed in the lack of pain as he hit. The walls showed the depth of the topsoil beneath the forever grass. It varied as he walked along, sometimes dipping below the level of the gully bottom. The earthy scent he noticed lying in his crater grew stronger as the grade steepened; another scent tickled the edge of his nose, decay.
McCabe cast his senses like a net into the gully before him. Other than several families of field mice and a gopher or two, they returned little. The hunger he felt upon waking came back with even more urgency. The feeling bothered him. Unlike his old friend, pain, this gave him no pleasure. It felt like something was gnawing at his insides. To top it off, night was falling.
The scent of decay grew stronger and soon his feet were splashing in fetid green water. The sound of frogs told him what his eyes could not; he would come out of the gully into a swamp. No moon shone in the evening sky and the small amount of light from the stars was little help. A mosquito landed on his arm seeking the exposed skin showing through the rents in the black silk. He could feel it crawling, as clearly as if his own hand was imitating the motion. Another sign of the changes made when the seeker joined itself with his being.
Following a whim, McCabe allowed the bloodsucker to feed and then absorbed its tiny spark of life in an instant. The minute thrill of it pleased him so he set off through the shallow waters treating his body like bait in order to trap a meal for the night. Leeches swarmed his legs, wriggling through the rents in the silk of his trousers. McCabe savored the feeling of their bites and then he fed.
He bedded down in a pile of rushes that he found gathered at the junction of three large Willows. Others must have come this way, he thought, perhaps I'll catch up with them. Mosquitoes and leeches are tasty, but unsatisfying. With that thought he fell asleep and dreamed of nothing, nothing as far as the eye could see.
The growling of McCabe's stomach woke him. Part of him wondered about why it would be doing that since he no longer ate in any real sense of the word. In the daylight his swamp proved to be more of a wet patch in the prairie where the land sank into a hollow. A number of small creeks such as the one he followed fed the depression with enough regularity to support the growth of Willows, reeds, rushes and the like.
He stood and continued walking eastward. Swamp or wet patch, it mattered little, there was something pulling him onward. He could feel it now. The voices exulted at the discovery and urged him with increased fervor. When he reached the verge where the depression began, he saw a long sloping hill whose base vanished in the distant haze. Before the haze, several dark spots moved in the grass. It looked like breakfast was coming his way.
As the spots grew closer it soon bec
ame apparent they were a grouping of foraging Garlocs, what the naturalists called a Tongue. McCabe knew of the beasts but this was his first sight of the lizard-like creatures. From what he could see there seemed little reason for the fear the mention of their name invoked. The Garlocs stood, on average, a bit more than a head shorter than he did and they were much thinner. Their mouths were at least twice as wide as that of a man, and filled with sharp needle-pointed teeth. The bandy legs bent at an odd angle, and didn't move like those of an animal used to walking upright, though these Garlocs showed no desire to do otherwise. Skin coloring, if it could be called coloring, was a sickly mottling of bile greens and browns. Good for camouflage if not for esthetics. He hoped they tasted better than they looked.
The Garlocs noticed McCabe when he reached the halfway point down the hill. Six pairs of deep yellow eyes focused on the solitary man. Guttural voices barked back and forth as they spread out before him in a rough skirmish line. His only reaction to the impending attack was a thin smile as he closed the distance between himself and the Garlocs. Upon reaching a spot where mere yards separated them, he stopped.
Two of the Tongue members gibbered at each other as they started an encircling maneuver. McCabe thought their voices interesting. The sound grated on the nerves like fingernails on slate, he liked that.
One of the larger Garlocs feinted in, slashed at McCabe and then danced back into position. Like jackals worrying a bear, the Garlocs moved in and out in an ever-narrowing dance designed to wear down their prey until, exhausted, it leaves an opening where the first bite can be taken. The Garloc saliva, poison to all other living things, would do the rest and allow them to dine at their leisure.
Finally one of the Tongue darted in close enough to try a bite. McCabe stepped aside lightly, and brushed the tips of his fingers across the Garloc's back. The creature dropped to the prairie floor, a dry husk. One Garloc, poised to attack immediately after its companion was done, stopped dead in its tracks. The others began gabbling all at once, but none of them moved a step closer to the slender black-haired human.
