Beyong the Moons

Chapter Five

Teldin awoke the next morning after a restless night of dark images that haunted his sleep. The dreams had roused him from slumber and left him sleepless in the dark. Teldin had stared into the night sky, tracing the paths of Krynn’s two visible moons, silvery smooth and featureless Solinart and the freckled red orb that was Lunitari. The world’s third moon, Nuitari, was invisible to all but the sinister wizards of the Black Robes. Each time Teldin drifted off to sleep he was wakened again when the frightful dreams returned.

When the sun had risen, the dreams were mercifully banished. Only small memories remained, more sensations than images-those of a terrible pressure, then something tearing at his chest. Whatever he had dreamed, Teldin was thankful he did not fully remember it with the dawn.

Sitting up on his bed of leaves and moss, the farmer brushed the dirt from his clothes and threw the cloak back over his shoulders. He looked ruefully at his shirt. The brown linen was scorched and stained, marked by large smears of dirt and blood. His cotton trousers were little better, marked by tatters and unraveling threads. Unfortunately, nearly all his other clothes had been lost in the blaze. The cloak, curiously enough, wasn’t stained at all.

“Best to wash what I’ve got. Wouldn’t want my cousins to think me a beggar,” Teldin muttered.

At the stream edge, Teldin kicked off his shoes and pulled down his trousers. His ankles and shins were scratched and scraped, and there were several new large bruises on his calves and thighs. No wonder he ached with every step. “Explains the bad sleep,” Teldin muttered crossly as he got ready to bathe.

The cloak would have to come off before Teldin could remove his shirt, he reasoned. Up to now, he’d had no luck with the clasp, because it had jammed somehow. It was either that or it obviously didn’t work the way he thought. Sitting on a stone at the edge of the bank, Teldin pressed his chin down to his chest, trying to see the small silver chain that held the cloak around his neck. It was ornate workmanship. The fine links of chain ended in two small lion-headed clasps. At least, Teldin assumed they were lions. The silvery jaws gripped each other in an intricate death struggle, holding the chains shut.

Teldin looked for a catch that would open the jaws. He tried pressing the eyes and nose, squeezing at the jaws, and pushing on the top of the head. Nothing happened. Stumped, he tried turning the heads. Perhaps they needed to be twisted in just some certain way, he thought.

As Teldin fiddled with the clasp, a shadow fell over his shoulder. “Trouble, sir?” rumbled the giff, standing behind him.

Teldin gave a sour look over his shoulder at the giff towering over him. Apparently the creature could move quietly. Teldin cautiously shifted around to put himself at less of a disadvantage. “It’s this clasp. I can’t seem to get it open, he grumbled. “Your captain ever take this off?”

“She never wore it until the neogi appeared,” Gomja answered.

“Hmm?” It wasn’t the answer Teldin had expected. He gave a yank on the chains, trying to pull the clasp apart. “How so?’’

Trooper Gomja unwound his filthy sash. “I remember the captain went below when the neogi first appeared. She said she needed to get her advantage. She came back wearing the cloak.” The giff began unbuttoning his blouse.

“Advantage?” The more Teldin learned, the more puzzled he became.

“That is what she said.” The giff peeled off his uniform. “Besides, she must have been able to remove it. She gave it to you, didn’t she? You jammed it, sir.”

Teldin doubted that greatly. The clasp did not look broken. He stared at the little eyes of the animal heads. “Is this thing magical, maybe?”

Trooper Gomja looked up from pulling off his trousers. His ears twitched warily. “I don’t know. Never had much use for magical stuff,” he muttered. In a louder voice the giff continued, “Could be, I suppose. The captain seemed to think wearing it would help.” Trooper Gomja’s words were carefully chosen and guarded.

Teldin chewed at his lip, vexed with the problem. He tried wiggling a fang. Nothing happened. “Did she? What’s it supposed to do?”

“I don’t know. sir. The captain never told me,” came the matter-of-fact answer. Naked, but unseen by Teldin’s occupied eyes, Trooper Gomja waded into the center of the stream and gingerly sat down in the cold water.

“Well, did you see anything? Did your captain, or this cloak, do anything special?” Teldin stood, his shirttail flapping against his bare legs.

Gomja thought carefully. “Not that I saw, sir. It was just a cloak.” Scooping up a handful of sand from the bottom, the giff let the mud in it filter away. Trooper Gomja turned away and began scouring his blue-gray hide with clean grit.

Teldin was not sure whether the giff really did not know or was carefully picking his answers so as not to reveal too much. All the same, he was not getting any answers. “Well, this is wonderful!” the farmer burst out in frustration. “I’ve got you, a cloak that might be magical-but I don’t know with what powers-and a bunch of creatures ready to kill for it! And I can’t even take this damn cloak off!” Infuriated, he yanked at the chain, trying to snap the silver clasp, but the fastening held. "And I can’t even take a bath!"

Gomja watched silently from the center of the stream. He had stopped scrubbing, letting the sand flow out from between his thick fingers. “Why don’t you pull your shirt off over it?” he calmly suggested.

Ready to start snarling, Teldin glared at the giff, then stopped. “Of course,” he said calmly, more to himself than to the giff, “pull my shirt off over a five-foot-long cloak. That shouldn’t be difficult. And every time I want to change my clothes, I can just do the same thing.” After a short struggle, Teldin emerged from the tussle of clothes, shirt in hand, cloak still around his neck. “It’s a good thing I don’t have to bathe too often,” he grumbled. The farmer finished pulling off his clothes and stood nearly naked on the bank. The cloak hung long down his back, lending an air of imperial, if ridiculous, dignity, to the bath. Teldin waded into the water, trying to keep the cloak dry. “Damn! I don’t want to go hiking with it soaking wet,” he muttered. The captain’s gift was becoming more and more of a curse every instant as he fumbled with the cascades of cloth, trying to wrap it around his shoulders or bundle it on top of his head.

Finally, with a frustrated growl, Teldin plopped into the stream and resigned himself to wearing the wet mass. The cool water tingled over his thighs and buttocks, raising the hairs on his legs.

“That’s curious,” the giff commented, watching Teldin’s back.

“Eh?” Teldin remarked with mild alarm while craning his neck around to look over his shoulder. The cloak was shorter, now barely more than a half-cape, dangling just above the water. The bottom had shrunk upward, as if suddenly afraid to get wet. “It changes sizes?” Teldin asked, dumbfounded. Still watching, the farmer leaned back slowly, trying to see the strange cloak in action. Sure enough, as he leaned, the hem receded, maintaining its distance just above the water.

Satisfied with these observations, Teldin decided to try something more extreme and suddenly pitched backward into the water, dunking himself completely. He emerged, blowing and rasping from his sudden immersion in the coolness. Water streamed from his short, sandy hair and down his hairy chest. The cloak was little more than a collar, shrunk to a minuscule size. Teldin beamed triumphantly.

After finishing their baths, the pair returned to the bank. Teldin sat on a stump, observing the waving green of his sunlit wheat field. Trampled paths made by the neogi and their slaves threaded through the waving stalks. The farmer scowled as he looked at the field. The wheat would recover from the beating, but Teldin worried about being away from his crops for too long. It would take at least a week, maybe more, to go to Kalaman and make arrangements with his cousins, and even then there was the matter of rebuilding the cabin. That needed to be done before the winter rains. Teldin started making a mental inventory of all the work that needed doing. He had to clear the wreckage, build a new cabin, replace the chicken coop, get new livestock, and still lay up enough food to see him through the winter. It was going to be a lot of heavy labor. “I wonder if I can talk Cousin Trandallic into buying a team and hitch.” In his heart, Teldin doubted it. During the siege of Kalaman, Teldin had lived with his cousins and knew they were not the wealthiest people in the city. Still, Malbart Trandallic had always been a good-hearted man.

At last dry, Teldin pulled on his clothes. “It’s time for me to go,” he announced casually. It was all the leavetaking he felt the giff needed. They were hardly old friends or companions. The farmer assumed the creature could manage on his own-he was certainly big enough to do so.

Teldin gathered his few surviving possessions, rolled them in a blanket, and tied off the ends. Shouldering his load, he struck out on the forest trail. The giff gathered up his own paltry goods and fell into step behind. Aware that he was being accompanied, Teldin stopped and confronted the blue-skinned alien. “Where are you going?” he challenged.

“With you-sir,” the giff answered, somewhat surprised that the question had even come up.

“I’m going to see my cousins. I don’t remember asking you along,” was Teldin’s cold reply. The farmer turned his back on the big alien.

As he walked, Teldin listened for sounds of the giff behind him. There was nothing, no plodding footsteps, and with the silence Teldin did not feel very proud. The big creature had even fewer choices than himself, he knew. The farmer wondered briefly where the giff would go or if the alien would still be here when he returned. “It’s not my problem,” he snarled softly to himself. “He can take care of himself.”

Abranch cracked behind the farmer, followed by crunching noises. The giff, Teldin thought, was following him again. The noises continued and doubt entered his mind. What if it wasn’t the giff? It might be a neogi, after all, left behind to spy. Slowly and carefully drawing the giffs cutlass, Teldin turned around, crouched like a brawler in a bar-fight.

There were no neogi, but across the field the giff was marching steadily along. Teldin jabbed the sword into the dirt and stood up straight. “Trooper Gomja,” he bellowed across the distance, “will you stop following me? Leave me alone! Go away!”

The giff barely paused in his stride. He met Teldin’s hot glare with an ingenuous smile. “But, sir, I’m not following you,” Trooper Gomja sweetly answered back. “I’m just going the same way. Kalaman sounds like an interesting place.” In a few lumbering strides, Trooper Gomja was almost alongside the farmer.

Teldin was getting a headache. Having refused to accept the giff, the farmer couldn’t very well order the creature away, nor were threats likely to work. It was clear that whether Teldin wanted him or not the giff was coming along, at least as far as Kalaman. “You sly knave,” Teldin grumbled, “get yourself up here. If we’re both going to Kalaman, we might as well walk together.”

Resigned to the companion at his side, Teldin struck out on the path for the last time, crossing the melon patch and wheat field. At the edge of the woods, he looked back. Blackbirds were settling on his broken melons. Teldin automatically took a step back toward the farm to shoo them away, but then stopped. There wasn’t any point. When he came back with money and maybe a team, then he could take care of things.

“Good-bye,” Teldin whispered, his voice unable to speak any louder. The cabin’s roofless walls echoed his words. Teldin could see the house, complete and whole, as his grandfather had built it. There were the places he had played: the brook, the gnarly oak at the edge of the forest, the fields in the time they grew corn. He saw his father, bent and tired, in the doorway when his son had come home from the war. Although Amdar had never said anything, Teldin knew the years alone had burdened his father, had worn him down before his years. Now, as he was leaving again, Teldin regretted going away the first time- any time.

Teldin swallowed painfully. He realized he hadn’t even visited the family graves. There was no time. “Good-bye, father. Good-bye, grandfather,” he whispered. “I’ll be back soon,” he added, not wanting their ghosts to think he was running away this time. Biting his lip, the farmer turned away from his land before the echoes of his own voice might return in the rustle of the trembling wheat.

As Teldin led the way, Gomja cast a look over his shoulder, searching for the ghosts that Teldin had seen.

By midmorning the pair had crossed Dargaard Valley and reached the Kalaman road. Teldin had swung wide of Liam’s farm. There was a good chance people might be there, and Teldin didn’t want to try explaining Gomja just yet. He also wasn’t ready to face the memories of that place. The detour had lengthened their march to the road, but neither Teldin nor the giff was in a particular hurry.

Before long, the late summer sun made their trek a sweltering march. The grasses that grew thick on all sides were already turning a sun-scorched tan. Grasshoppers flew up at every step, and thickets of brambles rustled with mice and birds.

As they strode down the rutted lane, Teldin noticed that his big companion didn’t seem very happy. With jowls sagging, Trooper Gomja stared at the ground.

“Why the long face?” Teldin asked. If they were going to walk together, they might as well talk, he reasoned. Conversation had certainly shortened long marches during the war.

“Long face?” the giff queried, raising his small, black eyes to meet Teldin’s gaze.

“Sad, unhappy. Not cheerful.”

Trooper Gomja gave an expansive shrug. “The neogi are gone,” he answered as if that explained everything.

“Yes, I know. I thought that was good,” Teldin answered with a tinge of sarcasm. A red-winged blackbird dove past them, cawing with irritation as they passed its nest.

“But I did not face them in combat!” the giff exclaimed. “I’ll always be Trooper Gomja, Red Grade, First Rank. At this rate, I’ll never get the chance to fight.” Gomja kicked at a rock with a big, round foot, sending the stone skittering into the grass. “It doesn’t matter anyway,’ he continued, “because there aren’t any other giff here to see what I do. I’m never going to go up in ranks, I’m never going to get off this world, and I don’t even know where here is!” The giffs big shoulders heaved with frustration. He stomped the earth with a solid thud.

Teldin held back his own feelings, giving the giff a chance to vent. He remembered how similar his own bitter accusations to his father were to Gomja’s complaints. Amdar had never seemed to understand, always insisting his son perform his duties on the farm and avoid pointless death in battle. They were not the words an idealistic youth had wanted to hear and, in the end, Teldin ran from the farm to seek honor and glory. He never found it in the war. Now, listening to the giff, Teldin tried to remember how it had felt back then. So much had changed since that time. Indeed Teldin found he had greater sympathy for his father than for his own voice in Gomja.

“Well, you’re in Vingaard Valley, outside Kalaman,” the farmer offered lamely, trying to be sympathetic. It was hard, though, since he no longer saw any glory in war. “Does that help?”

Trooper Gomja snorted, shaking his head. “What planet is this?”

“Planet?” Teldin was somewhat surprised by the question. While he had learned during the war that the continent on which he lived was Ansalon, the concept of an even larger body had never occurred to him. “I don’t know,” he admitted.

“Oh.” That knowledge didn’t really seem to help the giff at all. The creature’s gaze sank again.

“What are you going to do in Kalaman?” Teldin asked. It would be nice, bethought, if the giff had some kind of a plan, though Teldin doubted that was the case.

“I don’t know.” Gomja abruptly looked up. “What should I do, sir?”

“Me? That’s not my problem.” Teldin quickly backed off. Being sympathetic only went so far. The giff had already made his life complicated enough. “I’ve got my own worries, like how to get this cloak off. Can’t you decide for yourself?”

The giffs bluish skin darkened. “I don’t know,” the giff said, embarrassed to make the admission. “I’ve never had to."

“Never had…" Teldin shook his head in disbelief. It didn’t seem sensible that anyone as large as the giff should be so inexperienced. Then, remembering his experiences with his own father, Teldin stopped in the middle of the road and considered the trooper. “Just how old are you?” he asked the giff suspiciously.

“I am of age to serve in the ranks of the giff,” Trooper Gomja answered, again standing at attention as he spoke. A dragonfly whirred by and settled on the spreading head of a sunflower beside the road.

Teldin couldn’t help but notice the defensive tone in the giffs voice. “How old is ‘of age’?”

“Sixteen cycles of the spheres,” Gomja answered with exaggerated pride.

“Sixteen cycles-oh, sixteen years,” Teldin said, nodding. He found himself reevaluating his relationship, such as it was, with the giff. Teldin was twice the trooper’s age, even as old as a parent. “And what about your family? They weren’t on the ship, were they?”

“Family?” Gomja cocked his head, bemused by the question. “I was of the Red Platoon.”

Teldin did not understand the gift’s answer. “But you do have a mother and father? Parents-family?”

“Of course I had sires,” Gomja replied, explaining the obvious, “but I am of the Red Platoon. Giff do not live with their sires.

Although it seemed unnatural, Teldin accepted this, given the giff s curious militaristic bearing. He started walking again, slowly, so that the giff could keep pace. “Well, then, where’s the rest of the Red Platoon?”

“I am Red Platoon-or all that’s left,” Gomja answered sadly. The giff wiped away a rivulet of sweat that ran down the center of his muzzle. “The others were on board. They did not have the chance to die fighting.” Teldin wasn’t sure, but it looked like a small tear was forming in the corner of the gift’s tiny eye. If it did, the tear quickly disappeared into the fleshy folds of the gift’s jowls. The farmer decided not to bring the subject up again.

Flies buzzed between the two, attracted by the scent of sweat that reeked from the pair. It was not until the road reached the edge of the hills overlooking the Vingaard River that Teldin felt the urge to talk again. He looked out to see the river flowing across the valley floor.

“Those creatures, the neogi,” the farmer carefully asked of Gomja, “will they be back?”

Gomja screwed up his brow in thought. “They might,” he allowed.

“Might…" Teldin mulled over the words. “And if they caught up with the cloak-bearer?”

“It would mean a fight,” Gomja countered, not sounding entirely displeased.

The two companions stopped for a rest at the edge of the road. Teldin leaned against a worn distance marker while Gomja sprawled back in the tall, sun-browned grass. The giff rubbed the big, round pads of his feet and let out a mock groan.

“In Kalaman,” Teldin said, speaking to himself, “I’d better find someone who can get this cloak off. I might even be able to sell it for the team I need. After all, it’s magical-I think.” Teldin fingered the fabric, little more than a circlet around his neck since its immersion in the stream.

The giff was not listening; he was too busy checking his feet for blisters.

Teldin spat out a mouthful of road dust. “Better get used to it-the marching, I mean,” he advised. “It’s a long walk to Kalaman.”

The giff raised his head and gazed mournfully at the human. “How far, sir?”

“A dozen leagues, at least.” Teldin looked under his arm at the stone marker. “Fourteen, by this.”

Gomja let his head fall back with an audible sigh.

“I thought you were a soldier. Didn’t your platoon ever march anywhere?” Teldin chided.

The giff rolled his bulk upright. “We were marines,” he answered proudly, “not groundlings. We served aboard ship. Marching is for groundlings.”

Teldin felt his temper rise at the giffs words. “I marched everywhere,” he said coldly. “You’d better remember, you’re a groundling now.

The giff reddened, or, more properly, purpled, as his face flushed. “Yes, sir. I will remember that.”

“Enough,” Teldin said with no rancor in his voice. There was no point in arguing. “It’s time to get marching. Kalaman won’t get any closer if we just sit here.” He stood and rolled his shoulders, flexing out the kinks. The giff heaved to his feet.

“I will carry the load, sir.” Gomja held out a huge hand for Teldin’s bedroll. “You should not have to carry it. I want to do my part.”

Teldin started to protest, then thought better of it. Shrugging the makeshift pack off his shoulder, he passed it over. The giff draped the undersized pack around his neck.

“You told me you were a mule skinner,” Gomja said as he lumbered along, adding a curious inflection to the words. “Mule Skinner is the name of your platoon? It would be a great unit to have such a fearsome name.

Swallowing hard, Teldin stifled a hoot of laughter. His blue eyes twinkled mischievously as he thought of how to answer. Finally, with a straight face and mock seriousness, Teldin explained, “Oh, yes, Trooper Gomja, mule skinners were a brave lot, all right. The mule is one of the most dangerous, clever, and ornery beasts found in the land. It was the mule skinners’ job to keep these creatures under control.”

Gomja’s little eyes grew wide as he absorbed every word Teldin spoke. “There must be many heroes in your unit, sir."

A smirk escaped from Teldin’s lips. He fought to keep from collapsing with laughter. “There were many heroes much greater than any mule skinner.” The joke was going too far, and he doubted he could keep a straight face for much longer. “The mule skinners were only soldiers. Others did much more in the war.”

Gomja nodded, though Teldin wasn’t sure the giff accepted his answer. “Did your army win, sir?”

“Win the War of the Lance? I suppose so-yes, we did.” Teldin was relieved to be off the topic of mule skinners, but the question was certainly odd. He assumed everyone knew about the War of the Lance. “We chased the dragons and most of the draconians out, thanks to the Knights of Solamnia and the dragonlances.”

The giffs ears suddenly perked up. “Dragonlances? What are those?”

Teldin paused to spit out another mouthful of dust. “It’s a weapon, a lance. Dragonriders carried them. They were supposed to be special against dragons.” Teldin had never seen an actual dragonlance, and everything he knew about them came ftom camp tales. “One touch and, poof, the dragon was slain,” he explained with a wave of his hands.

“These must be mighty weapons,” Gomja said, awe- struck.

“We couldn’t have won the war without them,” Teldin agreed, nodding.

“Where can I get one of these dragonlances? I would like one.” There was no mistaking the eagerness in Gomja’s voice.

Teldin was taken aback by the directness of the question and the fact that the giff thought he could just go out a pick one up. “I don’t know. Maybe Kalaman. Palanthas, for sure,” he equivocated.

“Good. I’m going to Kalaman. I’ll look for one there.” Gomja gazed down the Kalaman road. “It will not be such a long march.” With that, he picked up the pace.

Teldin fell into an easy stride beside the hastily lumbering giff, but by noon, human and giff were both thoroughly hungry. When they had started, Teldin expected to meet farmers on the road, carrying vegetables to the Kalaman market. It was his plan to buy food for their journey with the little money he’d rescued from the wreckage of his house. Unfortunately, the plan was not working.

Teldin’s thoughts of food were interrupted by a sound different from the whine of the locusts and songs of the field birds. From behind came the groaning creak of wagon wheels and the snap and jingle of a harness. Looking back, he saw a wagon rounding the bend, but the wagon master hadn’t yet seen the pair.

The road at this point passed through a narrow cut. Thick brush and trees grew close to the banks, forming a shaded alley. These would give more than enough cover for Gomja. “Quickly,” Teldin ordered the giff, “get into the bushes and stay out of sight.”

“Yes, sir,” Gomja replied. His huge bulk swaying from side to side, the giff trotted off the road and behind a thicket. From the bushes he called out. “Shall I attack on your command?”

“Don’t do or say anything!” Teldin hissed back in exasperation.

“Yes, sir,” came Gomja’s muffled answer. The bushes rustled and grasshoppers leaped away as the giff settled in.

Teldin brushed the dust from his clothes and stood by the side of the road. He studied the wagon as it drew closer. It was really nothing but a simple farmer’s cart, with two big wheels and high sides. A pair of horses were in the hitch, plodding forward, urged on by a gaunt farmer’s whip. Next to the farmer sat a grubby youth, sucking on an orange. The boy casually spit orange seeds as the cart jolted along.

“Greetings, farmer!” Teldin shouted as the wagon drew near.

The farmer frantically pulled back on the reins as he spotted Teldin, letting the cart rumble to a stop while still a good distance away. The hollow-faced fellow shaded his eyes to scrutinize Teldin. The youth watched curiously, his cheeks covered with orange pulp.

“Greetings to you, stranger," the farmer finally said in a voice dry and dust-cracked. The words were slowly spoken, as if each were precious.

“My companion and I are bound for Kalaman,” Teldin explained as he began walking toward the cart.

“Stand where you are, stranger,” demanded the farmer. The older man spoke a quick, whispered word to the youth. The lad reached down and produced a small crossbow from under the seat. Fumblingly, he started to load the weapon. Before the boy got the bow set, however, he dropped the bolt. “We’ll have no funny business from you!” the farmer called to Teldin.

“We mean no harm. We only want a ride to Kalaman, if that’s where you’re bound,” Teldin shouted back. He spread his arms as if to prove his innocence.

“We? I only see one of you. You look like a brigand. You talk like a brigand.” The farmer, trying-and failing-to be discreet, squinted toward the bushes on either side of the path. The boy, still struggling with the crossbow, scooped up the dropped bolt only to have the empty bow twang as he accidentally released the trigger. The farmer angrily whispered to the lad, and the boy apologetically cowered as he started to work again.

“I’m no brigand,” Teldin protested, taking a few steps forward. The farmer raised his whip menacingly.

“Well, you’re dressed like one,” the old man shouted back.

Teldin was forced to consider his appearance and realized that the accusation fit the image. Here he was, a stranger standing in the middle of the road, wearing old farm clothes, with a battered cutlass slipped through his belt and a fine cloak-which seemed to have lengthened again-dangling from around his neck. It was hardly the dress of the ordinary traveler.

“I’m Teldin Moore of Dargaard Valley, a farmer like you. I’m just going to Kalaman to see family.” The driver squinted fiercely back, but did not relent. Teldin tried a different tact. “I’ll pay for the ride.”

“Just now you said ‘we’," the gaunt farmer countered suspiciously. The lad at his side finally succeed in drawing back the crossbow’s string and fitting a bolt. He pointed the weapon unsteadily in Teldin’s direction, which only made Teldin fearful he’d be shot accidentally. “Which is it, I or we?’’

Teldin thought fast, trying to think of a good explanation for Gomja. “Well.. uh… I have a companion, but… uh… but he suffered cruel misfortune during the war."

“I don’t care if he’s crippled or scarred. Have him out, or my boy shoots!” The lad looked up to his father, waiting for a signal.

“It’s not quite like that. He’s-” Teldin tried to explain. The old man cut him off with a quiver of the whip. “Very well. Trooper Gomja,” Teldin called back over his shoulder, "come on out-slowly.”

The branches of the thicket cracked as Gomja stepped into view. On the wagon, father and son gave a simultaneous gasp. The old man’s eyes widened while his boy almost dropped the crossbow again as he stood there stupidly, mouth agape.

“This is Trooper Gomja,” Teldin hastily said, before the wagon driver did something foolish. “He won’t hurt you. Please, let us ride with you." The wagoneer nodded his head in stunned silence while the boy slowly lowered the crossbow. Human and giff quickly climbed aboard before the man had a chance to come to his senses.

For several hours they rode along in silence. The father and son were too terrified to speak to their passengers. The giff dozed off, basking in the sunshine. Teldin grew bored and clambered up to the front. “I apologize for our meeting,” he offered. “But why were you so frightened? You don’t seem to be carrying anything that valuable.”

“It’s true, all I have are oranges and almonds and such, but this road’s been dangerous ever since the war,” the farmer allowed. “Name’s Jacos, by the way.”

Teldin was puzzled. He had never heard of any trouble, but then, he had not been to Kalaman since he had left the army. ‘The war’s been over for years. I know, I was in it.”

“Maybe over for you, but there’s a lot of men who never learned how to put down the sword.” Jacos flicked the rump of his horses to keep them from straying after a nibble of grass. “A lot of soldiers didn’t want to go back home-or there wasn’t a home to go back to. Now they’ve found an easy life, robbing folks on the road.”

“What about the officials? What about the Knights of Solamnia? Couldn’t they to deal with that?"

“They did, for a while. I suppose it just wasn’t glamorous enough for them knights. Since they left, the local militia can’t keep up. Somebody gets robbed and the militia chases the bandits around for a while till things quiet down. Then everybody goes home.” There was an ominous tone in the old man s voice.

“I don’t mean to be rude,” said Jacos, changing the subject, “but what happened to your friend back there? You said it was something in the war.”

“What?” Teldin stalled. He’d been working up a story for just this question and now he had to remember all the details. He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

“Oh, him. He doesn’t like to talk much about it. They-you know, the Highlords-did something to him. Tried to make him over, like they did with draconians." Teldin’s blue eyes took on a mischievous gleam. “Only they got that”-He nodded back toward Gomja-” instead. They called him a giff. It was a terrible thing. He won’t talk about it at all. In fact, I don’t think he even remembers it.

Jacos and his son nodded, their eyes wide with wonder.

“The best thing to do,” Teldin continued, relishing their gullible reaction, “is just never mention it. I wouldn’t want him remembering anything about it. Sometimes he gets nightmares and he’ll just tear a place up in his sleep.” The farmer gulped nervously as he glanced back at the dozing giff.

“So why you stick with him, mister?” asked the boy. Jacos shot his son a dark glance.

“He’s a friend,” Teldin replied hesitantly. “You can’t just leave a friend.”

“That’s enough of that now, boy. Let’s not be rude.” The boy looked disappointed that the topic was closed.

After that the conversation shifted to safer subjects. Teldin told of his cousins in Kalaman and the time he’d been there during the war. The boy was eager for war stories, and Teldin spun him a few yarns filled with dragons, flying citadels, and battles, to pass the time. Teldin was only telling stories he’d heard from others, but it made no difference to the boy. For him, the tales were all exciting. The lad’s enthusiasm made everything seem clear and simple again-who was good, who was evil, the heroics that were performed. It hadn’t quite turned out that way, Teldin thought.

By the time Teldin had exhausted the last of his war stories, the day was slipping into dusk. The rugged valleys were long behind them and ahead the road drew a straight line across the plain that surrounded Kalaman. The way was dotted with small villages and fields. Even after five years, most places showed some sign of the ravages of the siege and liberation of Kalaman. Houses were still abandoned, their owners long since fled or slain. Trench lines, crumbling and overgrown, still cut across fields. The woodland patches that grew in the wastelands were struggling to recover. Teldin remembered that nearly all the trees had been cut by the two armies. Ruins of earthworks and palisades thrown up by besieger and besieged stood in broken lines across the landscape.

It was not all ruined land, though. Teldin was surprised how much had been accomplished in five years. The survivors had resourcefully applied themselves to the task of rebuilding. Many of the houses were repaired with timber taken from the deserted palisades, the sharpened log

points now forming the corners of cabins. Trenches were converted to irrigation channels. Passing a cluster of shanties, Teldin saw the remains of an old wooden tower converted into a dozen small shacks.

Afew leagues ahead, the familiar gray walls of Kalaman sat in a shadowy mass, small spires of the central fortress rising over the walls. Alongside was the glittering silver of the Vingaard River where it broadened into the great Vingaard Bay.

Teldin climbed into the back, where Trooper Gomja lay sprawled over a heap of orange peels. The giff had eaten a prodigious amount of fruit. Teldin had promised Jacos payment, but now he worried what the current price of oranges in Kalaman was. His purse was far from substantial. Still, given the recent events in his life, this was only a minor concern.

As the wagon neared the city gates, Teldin gently tried to rouse the sleeping giff. Grumblingly, Gomja batted away Teldin’s hand and tried to roll over, setting the whole cart creaking with his shifting weight. Not to be put off so easily, Teldin grabbed the giffs shoulder and shook hard. The alien groggily opened his eyes.

After haggling with Jacos, Teldin dug a few of his precious coins out of his small purse and paid the farmer. Fortunately, there must have been a surplus of oranges this year, because a few steel still clinked in the bottom of his purse. Climbing out the back of the cart, the pair approached the gate. Teldin caught himself worrying whether the giff would play his part correctly, then wondered briefly why he was even bothering to help the giff get through the gate. But he was.