Chronicles of the Black Company

by Glen Cook

  Case looked suitably dubious and baffled.

  “Second, after you do that—and only after—tell the Colonel the undead are stirring,”

  Case stopped walking.

  “Case,” There was a note of command in Corbie’s voice the youth had not heard before.

  “Yes. All right.”

  “That’s it.”

  “Corbie. …”

  “No questions now. In a few weeks, maybe I can explain everything. All right?”

  “Okay.”

  “Not a word now. And remember. Packet to Sand the blacksmith. Then word to the Colonel. Tell you what. If I can, I’ll leave the Colonel a letter, too.”

  Case merely nodded.

  Corbie took a deep breath. It had been twenty years since he had attempted the simplest divining spell. Never had he tried anything on the order of what he now faced. Back in those ancient times, when he was another man, or boy, sorcery was a diversion for wealthy youths who would rather play wizard than pursue legitimate studies.

  All was ready. The tools of the sorcerer appropriate to the task lay on the table on the second floor of the house that Bomanz built. It was fitting that he follow the old one.

  He touched the oilskin packet left for Case, the opaque letter to Sweet, and prayed neither would touch the young man’s hands. But if what he suspected were true, it was better the enemy knew than the world be surprised.

  There was nothing left to do but do it. He gulped half a cup of cold tea, took his seat. He closed his eyes, began a chant taught him when he was younger than Case. His was not the method Bomanz had used, but it was as effective.

  His body would not relax, would not cease distracting him. But at last the full lethargy closed in. His ka loosed its ten thousand anchors to his flesh.

  Part of him insisted he was a fool for attempting this without the skills of a master. But he hadn’t the time for the training a Bomanz required. He had learned what he could during his absence from the Old Forest.

  Free of the flesh, yet connected by invisible bonds that would draw him back. If his luck held. He moved away carefully. He conformed to the rule of bodies exactly. He used the stairway, the doorway, and the sidewalks built by the Guard. Maintain the pretense of flesh and the flesh would be harder to forget.

  The world looked different. Each object had its unique aura. He found it difficult to concentrate on the grand task.

  He moved to the bounds of the Barrowland. He shuddered under the impact of thrumming old spells that kept the Dominator and several lesser minions bound. The power there! Carefully, he walked the boundary till he found the way that Bomanz had opened, still not fully healed.

  He stepped over the line.

  He drew the instant attention of every spirit, benign and malign, chained within the Barrowland. There were far more than he expected. Far more than the wizard’s map indicated. Those soldier symbols that surrounded the Great Barrow. … They were not statues. They were men, soldiers of the White Rose, who had been set as spirit guards perpetually standing between the world and the monster that would devour it. How driven must they have been. How dedicated to their cause.

  The path wound past the former resting places of old Taken, outer circle, inner circle, twisting. Within the inner circle he saw the true forms of several lesser monsters that had served the Domination. The path stretched like a trail of pale silver mist. Behind him that mist became more dense, his passage strengthening the way.

  Ahead, stronger spells. And all those men who had gone into the earth to surround the Dominator. And beyond them, the greater fear. The dragon thing that, on Bomanz’s map, lay coiled around the crypt in the heart of the Great Barrow.

  Spirits shrieked at him in TelleKurre, in UchiTelle, in languages he did not know and tongues vaguely like some still current. One and all, they cursed him. One and all, he ignored them. There was a thing in a chamber beneath the greatest mound. He had to see if it lay as restless as he suspected.

  The dragon. Oh, by all the gods that never were, that dragon was real. Real, alive, of flesh, yet it sensed and saw him. The silver trail curved past its jaws, through the gap between teeth and tail. It beat at him with a palpable will. But he would not be stayed.

  No more guardians. Just the crypt. And the monster man inside was constrained. He had survived the worst.…

  The old devil should be sleeping. Hadn’t the Lady defeated him in his attempt to escape through Juniper? Hadn’t she put him back down?

  It was a tomb like many around the world. Perhaps a bit richer. The White Rose had laid her opponents down in style. There were no sarcophagi, though. There. That empty table was where the Lady would have lain.

  The other boasted a sleeping man. A big man, and handsome, but with the mark of the beast upon him, even in repose. A face full of hot hatred, of the anger of defeat.

  Ah, then. His suspicions were groundless. The monster slept indeed. …

  The Dominator sat up. And smiled. His smile was the most wicked Corbie had ever seen. Then the undead extended a hand in welcome. Corbie ran.

  Mocking laughter pursued him.

  Panic was an emotion entirely unfamiliar. Seldom had he experienced it. He could not control it. He was only vaguely aware of passing the dragon and the hate-filled spirits of White Rose soldiers. He barely sensed the Dominator’s creatures beyond, all howling in delight.

  Even in his panic he clung to the misty trail. He made only one misstep. …

  But that was sufficient.

  The storm broke over the Barrowland. It was the most furious in living memory. The lightning clashed with the ferocity of heavenly armies, hammers and spears and swords of fire smiting earth and sky. The downpour was incessant and impenetrable.

  One mighty bolt struck the Barrowland. Earth and shrubbery flew a hundred yards into the air. The earth staggered. The Eternal Guard scrambled to arms terrified, sure the old evil had broken its chains.

  On the Barrowland two large shapes, one four-footed, one bipedal, formed in the afterglow of the lightning strike. In a moment both raced along a twisting path, leaving no mark upon water or mud. They passed the bounds of the Barrowland, fled toward the forest.

  No one saw them. When the Guard reached the Barrowland, carrying weapons and lanterns and fear like vast loads of lead, the storm had waned. The lightning had ceased its boisterous brawl. The rain had fallen off to normal.

  Colonel Sweet and his men spent hours roaming the bounds of the Barrowland. No one found a thing.

  The Eternal Guard returned to its compound cursing the gods and weather.

  On the second floor of Corbie’s house Corbie’s body continued to breathe one breath each five minutes. His heart barely turned over. He would be a long time dying without his spirit.

  The Plain of Fear

  I asked to see Darling and got an immediate audience. She expected me to come in raising hell about ill-advised military actions by outfits that could not afford losses. She expected lessons in the importance of maintaining cadres and forces-in-being. I surprised her by coming with neither. Here she was, primed to weather the worst, to get it over so she could get back to business, and I disappointed her.

  Instead, I took her the letters from Oar, which I had shared with no one yet. She expressed curiosity. I signed: “Read them.”

  It took a while. The Lieutenant ducked in and out, growing more impatient each time. She finished, looked at me. “Well?” she signed.

  “That comes from the core of the documents I am missing. Along with a few other things, that story is what I have been hunting. Soulcatcher gave me to believe that the weapon we want is hidden inside this story.”

  “It is not complete.”

  “No. But does it not give you pause?”

  “You have no idea who the writer is?”

  “No. And no way to find out, short of looking him up. Or her.” Actually, I had a couple of suspicions, but each seemed more unlikely than the other.

  “These have come with swift
regularity,” Darling observed. “After all this time.” That made me suspect she shared one of my suspicions. That “all this time.”

  “The couriers believe they were forwarded over a more spread period.”

  “It is interesting, but not yet useful. We must await more.”

  “It will not hurt to consider what it means. The end part of the last, there. That is beyond me. I have to work on that. It may be critical. Unless it is meant to baffle someone who intercepts the fragment.”

  She shuffled out the last sheet, stared at it. A sudden light illuminated her face. “It is the finger speech, Croaker,” she signed. “The letters. See? The speaking hand, as it forms the alphabet.”

  I circled behind her. I saw it now, and felt abysmally stupid for having missed it. Once you saw that, it was easy to read. If you knew your sign. It said:

  This may be the last communication, Croaker. There is something I must do. The risks are grave. The chances hang against me, but I must go ahead. If you do not receive the final installment, about Bomanz’s last days, you will have to come collect it. I will conceal one copy within the home of the wizard, as the story describes. You may find another in Oar. Ask for the blacksmith named Sand.

  Wish me luck. By now you must have found a place of safety. I would not bring you forth unless the fate of the world hinged upon it.

  There was no signature here, either.

  Darling and I stared at one another. I asked, “What do you think? What should I do?”

  “Wait.”

  “And if no further episodes are forthcoming?”

  “Then you must go looking.”

  “Yes.” Fear. The world was marshaled against us. The Rust raid would have the Taken in a vengeful frenzy.

  “It may be the great hope, Croaker.”

  “The Barrowland, Darling. Only the Tower itself could be more dangerous.”

  “Perhaps I should accompany you.”

  “No! You will not be risked. Not under any circumstances. The movement can survive the loss of one beat-up, worn-out old physician. It cannot without the White Rose.”

  She hugged me hard, backed off, signed, “I am not the White Rose, Croaker. She is dead four centuries. I am Darling.”

  “Our enemies call you the White Rose. Our friends do. There is power in a name.” I waved the letters. “That is what this is about. One name. What you have been named you must be.“

  “I am Darling,” she insisted.

  “To me, maybe. To Silent. To a few others. But to the world you are the White Rose, the hope and the salvation.” It occurred to me that a name was missing. The name Darling wore before she became a ward of the Company. Always she had been Darling, because that was what Raven called her. Had he known her birth name? If so, it no longer mattered. She was safe. She was the last alive to know it, if even she remembered. The village where we found her, mauled by the Limper’s troops, was not the sort that kept written records.

  “Go,” she signed. “Study. Think, Be of good faith. Somewhere, soon, you will find the thread.”

  The Plain of Fear

  The men who fled Rust with the cowardly windwhale eventually arrived. We learned that the Taken had escaped the Plain, all in a rage because but one carpet survived. Their offensive would be delayed till the carpets were replaced. And carpets are among the greatest and most costly magicks. I suspect the Limper had to do a lot of explaining to the Lady.

  I drafted One-Eye, Goblin, and Silent into an expanded project. I translated. They extracted proper names, assembled them in charts. My quarters became all but impenetrable. And barely livable while they were there, for Goblin and One-Eye had had a couple of tastes of life outside Darling’s null. They were at one another constantly.

  And I began having nightmares.

  One evening I posed a challenge, half as a result of no further courier arriving, half as busywork meant to stop Goblin and One-Eye from driving me mad. I said, “I may have to leave the Plain. Can you do something so I don’t attract any special attention?”

  They had their questions. I answered most honestly. They wanted to go too, as if a journey west was established fact. I said, “No way are you going. A thousand miles of this crap? I’d commit suicide before we got off the Plain. Or murder one of you. Which I’m considering anyway.”

  Goblin squeaked. He pretended mortal terror. One-Eye said, “Get within ten feet of me and I’ll turn you into a lizard.”

  I made a rude noise. “You can barely turn food into shit.”

  Goblin cackled. “Chickens and cows do better. You can fertilize with theirs.”

  “You got no room to talk, runt,” I snapped.

  “Getting touchy in his old age” One-Eye observed. “Must be rheumatiz. Got the rheumatiz, Croaker?”

  “He’ll wish his problem was rheumatism if he keeps on,” Goblin promised. “It’s bad enough I have to put up with you. But you’re at least predictable.”

  “Predictable?”

  “Like the seasons.”

  They were off. I sped Silent a look of appeal. The son-of-a-bitch ignored me.

  Next day Goblin ambled in wearing a smug smile. “We figured something out, Croaker. In case you do go wandering.”

  “Like what?”

  “We’ll need your amulets.”

  I had two that they had given me long ago. One was supposed to warn me of the proximity of the Taken. It worked quite well. The other, ostensibly, was protective, but it also let them locate me from a distance. Silent tracked it the time Catcher sent Raven and me to ambush Limper and Whisper in the Forest of Cloud, when Limper tried to go over to the Rebel.

  Long ago and far away. Memories of a younger Croaker.

  “We’ll work up some modifications. So you can’t be located magically. Let me have them. Later we’ll have to go outside to test them.”

  I eyed him narrowly.

  He said, “You’ll have to come so we can test them by trying to find you.”

  “Yeah? Sounds like a drummed-up excuse to get outside the null.”

  “Maybe.” He grinned.

  Whatever, Darling liked the notion. Next evening we headed up the creek, skirting Old Father Tree. “He looks a little peaked,” I said.

  “Caught the side wash of a Taken spell during the brouhaha,” One-Eye explained. “I don’t think he was pleased.”

  The old tree tinkled. I stopped, considered it. It had to be thousands of years old. Trees grow very slow on the Plain. What stories it would tell!

  “Come on, Croaker,” Goblin called. “Old Father ain’t talking.” He grinned his frog grin.

  They know me too well. Know when I see anything old I wonder what it has seen. Damn them, anyhow.

  We left the watercourse five miles from the Hole, quartered westward into desert where the coral was especially dense and dangerous. I guess there were five hundred species, in reefs so close they were almost impenetrable. The colors were riotous. Fingers, fronds, branches of coral soared thirty feet into the air. I remain eternally amazed that the wind does not topple them.

  In a small sandy place surrounded by coral, One-Eye called a halt. “This is far enough. We’ll be safe here,”

  I wondered. Our progress had been followed by mantas and the creatures that resemble buzzards. Never will I trust such beasts completely.

  Long, long ago, after the Battle at Charm, the Company crossed the Plain en route to assignments in the east. I saw horrible things happen. I could not shake the memories.

  Goblin and One-Eye played games but also tended to business. They remind me of active children. Always into something, just to be doing. I lay back and watched the clouds. Soon I fell asleep.

  Goblin wakened me. He returned my amulets. “We’re going to play hide-and-seek,” he said. “We’ll give you a head start. If we’ve done everything right, we won’t be able to find you.”

  “Now that’s wonderful,” I replied. “Me alone out here, wandering around lost.” I was just carping, I could find the Hole. As
a nasty practical joke I was tempted to head straight there.

  This was business, though.

  I set off to the southwest, toward the buttes. I crossed the westward trail and went into hiding among quiescent walking trees. Only after darkness fell did I give up waiting. I walked back to the Hole, wondering what had become of my companions, I startled the sentry when I arrived.

  “Goblin and One-Eye come in?”

  “No. I thought they were with you.”

  “They were.” Concerned, I went below, asked the Lieutenant’s advice.

  “Go find them,” he told me.

  “How?”

  He looked at me like I was a half-wit. “Leave your silly amulets, go outside the null, and wait.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  So I went back outside, walked up the creek, grumbling. My feet ached. I was not used to so much hiking. Good for me, I told myself. Had to be in shape if there was a trip to Oar in the cards.

  I reached the edge of the coral reefs. “One-Eye! Goblin! You guys around?”

  No answer. I was not going on looking, though. The coral would kill me. I circled north, assuming they had moved away from the Hole, Each few minutes I dropped to my knees, hoping to spot a menhir’s silhouette. The menhirs would know what had become of them.

  Once I saw some flash and fury from the corner of my eye and, without thinking, ran that way, thinking it was Goblin and One-Eye squabbling. But a direct look revealed the distant rage of a change storm.

  I stopped immediately, belatedly remembering that only death hurries on the Plain by night.

  I was lucky. Just steps onward the sand became spongy, loose. I squatted, sniffed a handful. It held the smell of old death. I backed away carefully. Who knows what lay in waiting beneath that sand?

  “Better plant somewhere and wait for the sun,” I muttered. I was no longer certain of my position.

  I found some rocks that would break the wind, some brush for firewood, and pitched camp. The fire was more to declare myself to beasts than to keep warm. The night was not cold.

  Firemaking was a symbolic statement out there.