Beyong the Moons

Chapter Eight

Teldin sat on the edge of the rumpled bed, his eyes closed in intense concentration. A ray of morning sunlight crept slowly across the dull wooden floor to play on the farmer’s leg. Across the small room, Gomja stood at the washstand, scrubbing his face in the cold water of the basin. The sound of water trickling and dripping mingled with the occasional cries of the vendors from the street below. Gomja began to hum an off-key march, the song droning mournfully. Before the giff had gotten more than a few notes into the song, Teldin flung himself back on the bed in exasperation.

“Damn! What am I supposed to do with this thing?” Teldin shouted toward the ceiling. He beat his palms in frustration on the moth-chewed blankets, raising a cloud of dust. “I can’t take this damned thing off. 1 can’t even get it to change size, and I know it can do that!” In a decidedly poor mood, Teldin rolled off the bed and paced over to the window, like a fox prowling along the edge of a chicken coop.

The giff watched the outburst wide-eyed but said nothing, since this had been going on all morning. As a trooper, it wasn’t his place to comment anyway. Keeping one wary eye on the farmer, the giff returned to his ablution.

“Again,” Teldin said with a forced sigh as he struggled to calm his temper. The human’s eyes closed, brows knitted, and teeth clenched as he translated mental concentration into physical effort. There was a tickle at the back of his neck like the pull of static from a woolen sweater. The tickle grew stronger and ran down his spine, raising the hairs ever so slightly. Teldin stopped and looked at the shimmery fabric that hung from his shoulders. There was no doubt that it was now shorter than before.

Teldin took a breath and tried again. “Shrink,” he ordered. In his mind, he imagined the cloak as a stubborn mule. The tickling sensation returned and then seemed to reverse, drawing in toward his neck. The cloak was once again a small collar around his neck. “Something’s finally worked right,” he sighed in triumph.

While the giff finished scrubbing and dressing, Teldin practiced his newfound control, at first hesitantly and then with greater and greater confidence. The cloak grew, shrank, grew, and shrank again. “It works! I think of it like a mule, and it seems to react!” The farmer chortled triumphantly. After so many disasters and disappointments, this small success was elevated to the status of a major victory. Reducing the cloak to little more than a curious necklace, Teldir grabbed his boots and prepared to go.

From somewhere Trooper Gomja had found an apple and was chewing on it noisily. “Where to now, sir?” the giff asked as he gulped down the last remains, core and all.

“Weren’t you listening? I’m leaving town, going to Palanthas,” Teldin answered, almost cheerily. “I made arrangements with Vandoorm to meet him at the west gate. There I’ll buy a horse and ride to Palanthas.” Teldin didn’t even bother to look at the giff while he spoke, but he stressed the singular nature of his plans. As soon as the second boot was pulled on, the human sprang to his feet and hurriedly began stuffing his few possessions into a small bundle.

Gomja began to mimic the human’s packing. He ducked his head under the ceiling beam and set his gear on the bed. With the precision that came from years of military training, the trooper began efficiently stowing his gear. "We, sir?” the giff asked hopefully as he folded the few charts salvaged from the Penumbra’s wreckage.

Teldin stopped in the midst of cramming his one spare shirt into the bottom of his bag. “Vandoorm and I,” the farmer said quite clearly.

“I see.” The giff continued packing. His face showed no sign of emotion or distress. “Vandoorm — he’s a mercenary, isn’t he?”

Teldin slowly resumed packing. “That he is,” was his wary answer. The farmer stowed his gear by touch, his eyes watching the tall giff.

“Then I will offer my services,” Gomja calmly announced without once looking away from his packing.

“You will what?”

“Hire on, sir. He is a mercenary and I am a soldier without a command.” Gomja finally stopped and looked toward Teldin as he calmly explained his own plan. The giff was casually confident in the success of the idea.

“You will do no such thing! You can just stop following me around and get out of my life,” Teldin sputtered. He grabbed his bundle and violently swung it over his shoulder.

“Of course, sir,” Gomja answered, still unperturbed by Teldin’s outbursts. The giff continued his methodical packing, tying off the bundle and swinging it over his shoulder. “I’m seeking gainful employment. It’s purely a coincidence that the only person who will hire me is your friend, Vandoorm. Giff are the finest bodyguards and enforcers in all the Known Spheres. Besides, I, too, have questions to ask this Astinus of Palanthas fellow. The sooner I find a way off this world, the farther ‘out of your life’ I’ll be.’ The giff gave a placid, almost serene smile. “I’ll see you at the west gate, sir.”

Teldin gave a scream, or more properly a bleat, of frustration and buried his face in his hands. “All right, you win! Let’s just go to the gate together.” Very deep down, the human felt a little quiver of relief. Was it because he was coming to like the big brute’s company? Or was it simply a release from the guilt of stranding the giff in Kalaman? Teldin could not tell for sure.

The pair left quietly, taking care not to disturb the sleeping innkeeper. The man had already been paid, so Teldin saw no need to rouse him. A cat followed them out the door, disappearing down an alley as they walked down the street. The clear sky and morning sun already made for a warm day, but the cool night breeze was still blowing in from the bay.

Teldin wasted no time making for the main thoroughfare. This broad avenue cut through the heart of Kalaman, straight from the castle to the west gate. Saplings lined the avenue and flowers bloomed down the parklike center. Just before the castle stood a great bronze statue of Lauralanthalasa, the Golden General and liberator of Kalaman, astride her horse. At the far end of the thoroughfare was the great tower of the west gate, looming over the small houses clustered around it. Statue and gate were easily visible anywhere along the length of the boulevard.

Teldin remembered that when Kalaman was freed from the siege of the draconians, the avenue had been a bleak and cheerless swath, littered with the camps of troops and the homeless. In many ways, it had looked like the park he and Gomja had stumbled into two nights ago. There were the same collections of hovels, the same stripped trees. even the sad and desperate people. Teldin wondered how many in that park had once lived along this green avenue.

“Sir, who is this Vandoorm anyway?” Gomja asked as they hurried down the street. The giffs voice was muffled by the folds of cloth that covered his head. “Is he a brave commander? I should know before I sign on with him."

The lanky farmer briefly considered not answering-or even lying to get the giff in trouble-but chose against it. The giff might be a nuisance, but he did not deserve that kind of treatment, ‘Vandoorm’s an old soldier, and brave enough, I imagine. I never served under him, so I wouldn’t really know.”

“Then how do you know him? I assumed you fought under him in the war.” Gomja struggled with the blanket trying to keep it from slipping off his ears.

Teldin reached up and helped readjust the cloth as they walked. “I met him during the war-at Palanthas when I first came to join up. I was a raw youth-” Teidin stopped to pick his words somewhat carefully, remembering that Trooper Gomja was only sixteen, “Anyway I met Vandoorm in Palanthas. He showed me the way things worked in the army-kept me out of trouble.”

“He sounds experienced,” the giff offered.

“That he certainly is-also profane, bawdy, and a few other things besides.” Teldin picked up the pace, worried that he might miss the morning rendezvous. The giff bustled to keep alongside the human, effectively ending their conversation

“Good morn, Moore!” called out a voice as they neared the gate. The brawny Vandoorm stepped free of the taller men and horses clustered around the fortress wall. “You finally made it. I always thought farmers got up early in the morning, but maybe farming makes you soft, eh?” The squat mercenary’s jibe was good-natured. Clapping Teldin on the shoulder, the shorter man turned back toward the riders and, with a wave of his hand, boastfully introduced them. This is my squadron, the toughest fighters in all of Solamnia.”

Teldin looked over the twenty or so men who formed Vandoorm’s war band. They were unmistakably mercenaries; some sat tall and proud, others slunk in their saddles, but all were marked by a hard edge in their stares, suspicious eyes chiseled out of stone. Each man was outfitted for battle. There were lances adorned with tattered pennons, shields painted with fanciful designs, and unmatched pieces of armor dyed in brilliant colors and gilt with silver and brass. Swords poked out from under cloaks, bows and quivers hung on the horses’ flanks, spears fit in sockets at the sides of saddles, while other implements of war gave each man an individual and unique armory.

Afew of the riders stood out from the already distinctive group and Teldin took note of them. One, sporting an eyepatch and a mane of black hair, carried two great knives cross-belted over his chain mail shirt. Another, dressed only in simple browns, studied the newcomers as he waxed the string of his long bow. These two, in particular, seemed to stand out from the rest of the group.

Just as Teldin studied them, the score of riders carefully looked the farmer over. There was no hatred or rancor in their looks, only cool contempt bred by their survival instincts. Finally Vandoorm broke the spell. “We are ready to ride, Moore. Meschior will get a horse for you while you say good-bye to your. . companion.” Vandoorm nodded toward the giff.

“He wants to come along,” Teldin answered tersely, stepping closer to the giff.

The mercenary captain stopped and looked at Teldin. “That’s not what you said last night,” Vandoorm replied in surprise.

“Things change,” Teldin answered with a shrug. “Now he wants to come with me.”

The shorter man puckered his mouth in thought, clearly a little skeptical of the new arrangement. “Come here,” he finally ordered the enormous, cloaked stranger facing him.

“Yes, sir!” Gomja boomed from within the folds that still covered his face. In true military manner, the giff briskly stepped forward and snapped rigidly to attention. “Trooper Gomja requesting permission to sign on, sir!”

Looking around the giff, Teldin smiled as Vandoorm arched an eyebrow in surprise. At five feet tall, the captain’s nose barely reached the middle of Gomja’s chest. “Can you use a sword?” Vandoorm finally asked.

‘‘Yes, sir!’’

“Have you fought in battle?”

Gomja hesitated for a moment, then decided the Penumbra's crash counted-sort of. “Yes, sir.”

“Have you kill a man?”

Looking dead ahead, avoiding Vandoorm’s gaze, Gomja answered, “No, sir.” The giff stood waiting for more questions, but Vandoorm just let him wait. Instead the captain slowly circled the giff, noting the pudgy, blue-gray hands, the thick legs, and the wide shoulders.

“I do not know, Teldin. For you I say yes, but first I will ask my lieutenants,” Vandoorm commented as he stopped beside his old friend. “Brun, Meschior, we talk.” Walking away from Teldin, Vandoorm motioned for his two aides to join him. Teldin, not too surprised, noticed that it was the one-eyed man and the archer who joined their captain. The three held a quiet conversation, punctuated by stares at the giff and Teldin and a few sharply pointed fingers. Teldin could not hear what they said, but he guessed from their expressions that it was not going well. When the discussion ended, all three came over, Vandoorm in the lead.

“Like me, my lieutenants do not like this,” the bearded captain announced, talking mainly to Teldin. “He looks strong, but why does he hide his face?”

“I told you last night what the Dark Queen did to him,” Teldin quickly offered before the giff might say something else. “It draws too much attention in town, so it’s better if he stays covered up.” Gomja, learning his part, nodded in agreement.

The answer wasn’t good enough for Vandoorm. “Show me your face,” he demanded, turning to the giff. Gomja turned to ask Teldin, but all the farmer could answer with was a shrug. Reluctantly, the giff slowly opened the folds of the blanket. As he pulled back the cloth just enough for them to see, Vandoorm, Brun, and Meschior pressed close like boys eager to peek into a tavern wench’s bedroom. Getting a view of Gomja’s face, Vandoorm’s eyes widened slightly. The gaze of the other two remained as hard and unreadable as before. Finally, the captain spoke in slow measure. "I see why you cover him up. He would draw attention in town." He glanced back at Gomja, sizing up the giff up in a new light. With hardly a look at his aides, Vandoorm casually added, "Good fighter, I think. He comes. Get the men ready to ride." This last was addressed to his lieutenants.

The mercernary leader turned to Teldin and clapped him on the back. "I do this because you are like a son, Tel. On the trip, you'll pay me back, I am sure." He broke into a laugh on seeing the puzzled, panicked look that crossed the farmer's face. "You take care of my horses, I take care of you. Come now, let's get you a horse." Grabbing Teldin by the elbow, Vandoorm led the farmer to the waiting company for instructions. Gomja, pleased with the results, trailed after the two.

They were quickly underway, but soon the ride became monotonous, just the steady plodding of horse hooves over the dusty road. Even walking alongside, Gomja was able to keep pace fairly well. Outside the city, the giff did away with the hot and stifling blanket over his face. The first appearance of the blue-gray monstrosity in their midst caused considerable consternation amoung the men at first, but they quicky concealed their surprise and curiosity, except for the occasional watchful glances from the corners of their eyes.

That night, the group camped in the foothills of the Dargaard Mountains. Somewhere to the south, not too distant, was the ill-omened fortress of Dargaard Keep. Although well inside the borders of Solamnia, The man kept careful watch, mindful of the tales told of Lord Soth and his dark stronghold.

Finished with his soup of dried peas and herbs, Teldin sat close to the fire. The night sky was clear and the sun's warmth had quickly drained away, replaced by a cool breeze from the mountains. The campfire provided good protection from the unseasonable chill. Teldin considered producing the cloak but desided against it. He distrusted its powers, for while it was an inanimate thing, it seemed to have the knack of causing more trouble than it solved. Besides, he was just as happy not to be reminded of the cure he wore around his neck. Gomja, ever conscious of danger, sat farther from the fire, carefully positioned to watch the others as much as he could.

Vandoorm finished his rounds of the men and squatted beside Teldin. " I thought last night you had a cloak — a warm-looking one." The warrior yawned and picked at his beard.

"Yes," Teldin answered slowly. Although the question was innocent enough, any curiosity about the cloak made Teldin wary. His first instinct was to deny the cloak's existence, but logically he knew that was impossible.

"It is foolish to sit in the cold, that is all." Vandoorm smiled and spread his hands.

Teldin's blue eyes narrowed, nervously scanning the captain from head to toe. "It was a cousin's. I borrowed it and gave it back."

"Ah. Do you need a blanket? I have extras for an old friend," Vandoorm generously offered. When Teldin shook his head, the captain smiled and shrugged. " Always the same. My generosity you do not need." Vandoorm nodded toward Gomja. "The strange one — you met him in the war?"

"Sort of" Teldin lied. The tale of Gomja and the Dark Queen was not going to hold up if Vandoorm started asking too many questions. The veteran knew more about the War of the Lance than Teldin and certainly more than Gomja. The farmer did not want to risk their fraud being discovered. "He showed up on my farm, not long after the war. The poor thing doesn't really remember what happened."

"Much better that way," Vandoorm grunted. "You told him all about us, right? How I am like your father?"

Teldin chuckled at the captain's good-humored vanity. "Only a little, Vandoorm. Stories could never do you justice."

"Ah, maybe I'll tell him how I taught you to drink like a real soldier." the mercernary ribbed as he kicked a log farther into the small fire. "You remember, eh?"

"Oh, I still remember, Vandoorm. How could I ever forget your lessons?" That drink, a young farmer's first, was quite unforgettable in Teldin's mind. Then there were Vandoorm's lessons in avoiding guard duty, camp life, requisitioning supplies, and whoring. Vandoorm had been an excellent teacher in the practical business of soldiering.

"They were good times, the war," Vandoorm said as he stared at the fire. "Not like now — little work for this old soldier." The mercenary pulled a hair from his beard. "Maybe I'll become a farmer like you."

Teldin burst into laughter at the thought of his old friend trying to tend a field. "Hah!" he declared through snorts. "I can see you ordering chickens into the henhouse! Move, you lazy birds," the farmer bellowed, imitating his old friend. Teldin's impersonation brought a self-mocking smile to the captain's face. Soon the quiet night echoedwith their laughter.

At last Vandoorm rose, shaking out his stiff legs. "You do not change, Tel. I am glad I found you in Kalaman. Enjoy your sleep. Tomorrow we'll talk more about old times." Vandoorm shook hands with his old friend, then went back on his rounds.

After all the precautions taken in the camp, the night was peaceful. Awakening at dawn, Teldin saw Gomja's dark shape huddled near the fire. The giff was asleep, still sitting upright, as if on guard. The farmer stirred up the coals of the fire and made breakfast. Only them did he wake his companion. Not too much later, the war band broke camp, the men glad to leave the region of Dargaard Keep.

Once on the road, the ride quickly fell into the same simple routine of the day before. True to his word, Vandoorm rode with Teldin. Having given his orders yesterday, there was little more the captain needed to do. On occasion, he had Teldin check a load or clean a horse's hoof, but the ridr was generally quiet.

Their conversation drifted to many things. Vandoorm told of how he had drifted around since the war. It seemed that with groups of draconians still on the loose, there was sometimes work for mercenaries. Over the years Vandoorm had gone from just another hired sword to the leader of a small band. He'd made a fair share of money and, like a good soldier, had managed to squander most of it away.

For his part, Teldin described what had happened to his farm both over the years and recently, though he made no mention of flying ships, neogi, or his strange cloak. It was raiders, the farmer claimed, that had destroyed the farm, and now he was going to Palanthas to seek funds from distant cousins.

Talk wandered back to the old days. Vandoorm took delight in relating to Gomja embarrassing tales of Teldin's youth. "I had to talk him out of joining the lead troops,"Vandoorm incredulously explained. "When he came to Palanthas, Teldin was ready to fight draconians all alone." The captain smirked at the thought. "To keep him alive, I saw that he became a mule skinner. Is it not true, Tel?"

The giff looked up at Teldin to check the veracity of the mercenary's words. The yeoman nodded, his head bobbing in rhythm with the plodding of the horse. "It's true enough, but I hated him for it. He told the commander I was a farmer and skilled with mules."

"That man was a fool, easy to trick — but I did it for you. He was too young to be killed in the war — and had no stomach for soldiering," Vandoorm proudly cut in. "It was for the best. You see, you're alive today, eh?"

Teldin hated to admit that the captain was right, but he was. The mercenary was a good judge of character, even then. Teldin had come to Palanthas full of ideals but not much on realities. Vandoorm knew it and had arranged for the farm boy to learn. "Why did you do it, anyway? It's something I've always wanted to know."

Vandoorm swayed in the saddle for a time before answering. "I think maybe you reminded me of my sister's son," he eventally answered, flashing a wicked grin. "I liked you, didn't want to see you die, eh?"

Teldin did not argue. Their friendship was one of the things he had never really understood. True, they got along well enough, but, then or now, the farmer could not guess why Vandoorm had taken him under his wing.

Still, the friendship between Vandoorm and Teldin seemed to have little effect on the other men. It did not bother Teldin. As a rule, he found mercenaries to be an unpleasant and unlikable crew. Teldin remembered their sort of war, men who, upon seeing blood, first learned not to fear it, then grew to like it. They fought not because the cause was just, but because they enjoyed it. For the mercenaries, money settled all moral issues. More than once in the war, Teldin had met men who had fought on both sides, picking whichever side paid the best or was most expedient. They never understood or cared for which side was right. Revenge was their idea of justice.

The wild-maned, eye-patched rider, Brun One-Eye seemed particularly suspicious of Teldin and his companion. Three — maybr four — times an hour, Teldin would catch the man staring in their direction. Brun was never hostile and, indeed, was even friendly. Sometimes he rode alongside, asking questions about the giff, their destination, where they'd been, and what they had seen. But Teldin's answers were guarded; the one-eyed mercenary did not inspire a feeling of trust.

At night, when Vardoorm was busy, Teldin spent his time pointing out the constellations to Gomja. The trooper worked at memorizing their positions, names, and histories; the Balance, Paladine, and the Queen of Darkness were among the few that Teldin could identify.

For his part, the giff tried to explain to the farmer the wonders of space: how the stars burned, how strange creatures walked other worlds, and how ships flew between the spheres. Words failed Gomja too often, leaving Teldin more confused than he had been to start with. Still, the giff's tales were full of wonders and adventures that Teldin had never heard before.

The company traveled without change for several days, pressing hard by day, camping at the edge of fields by night. They seldom stopped at the inns along the route. Vandoorm kept a strict discipline, and the tavern rooms were too great a temptation for drunkenness. In that much, the captain had changed quite a bit, Teldin reflected. Some of the men grumbled, but most were professionals, used to Vandoorm's ways.

Seven days from Kalaman, and six from their camp near Dargaard Keep, the mercenaries reached the walls of the High Cleric's Tower. The massive fortification, site of the first great victory in the War of the Lance, sat astride Westgate Pass, blocking the narrow canyon that eventually led to distant Palanthas. The road pierced the walls of the keep and passed through a smaller section known as the Knight's Spur. To one side of the spur rose the keep's distinctive structures: a cluster of towers grouped around a single main spire, the santuary of the High Clerist, that soared to dizzying heights over the rest. Teldin had been told once by a knight that from the top you could see as far as Throtyl Gap, sixty leagues away. Discounting the obvious exaggeration, the tower was tall enough to reach above the canyon walls that marked the edge of the plain. These cliffs cast flanking shadows on the road as it neared the gate.

Thoughout the keep, years of neglect and war were slowly being undone. Fresh masonry stood out plainly against the old, dark stone. Nearly deserted at one time, its walls now held many men, who stood bored but watchful. The memories of two wars were still fresh in the minds of most of the garrison, wars during which the keep had been undermanned and ill-led. The soldiers of the fortress now seemed determined to prevent that from happening again.

Where the guards of Kalaman were cautious, their fellows at the High Clerist’s Tower were outright suspicious. The attitudes of those in Palanthas were slowly changing and these guards reflected those new feelings, carefully checking all who sought to pass through the portcullises. The line of traffic slowly wound through the gates as each vehicle, each traveler, was stopped, then cleared for entry into Westgate Pass. Finally, Vandoorm went forward, representing his men. Returning, he waved the troop forward as the guards idly watched. When Teldin and the giff approached, Vandoorm pulled them aside.

“It takes much persuasion to get your friend through the gates. The knights are no longer the most trusting and foolish of warriors. Even some of my own men tell me to leave your friend behind. If the guards challenge him, make sure he does nothing rash.” Vandoorm nodded significantly toward the giff and then reined his horse away. Teldin also looked at his companion, trying to read the alien’s expression, but Gomja’s broad face was an impassive mask. Quelling any feelings of doom and misgiving, Teldin followed Vandoorm through the tower gate.

Once they were finally past the portcullises, over the bridge, through the walls, and had entered the narrow canyon beyond, Teldin looked to Gomja with relief. The giff had not done anything rash, which was a small blessing.

His troops reunited and his authority restored, Vandoorm easily swung onto his horse, a sturdy chestnut mare. At his bawled command, the troops mounted and began the long descent toward Palanthas.

After leaving the keep, the road plunged into a narrow gorge that cut between two knife-edged mountain ridges. The track shared the canyon floor with a swift-flowing stream fed by the rains and snows that.tumbled down the gully-creased inclines. Few trees could find a foothold on the steep and rock-bound slopes, so the waters flowed red-brown from the minerals carried off by erosion. The road followed the stream where it could, winding in and out of the shadows. The canyon floor was seldom in full daylight.

Where before they had ridden at a hard pace, Vandoorm now ordered a complete change, slowing the column to a gentle walk. Teldin, tired and saddle-sore from days of jolting trots, had no complaints, while Gomja found it easier to keep pace with the riders. The big giff marched alongside the mounted human.

As he gently swayed in the saddle, Teldin spoke with the giff, raising his voice to be heard above the clacking hooves of the column. “Well, Gomja, this cut leads straight to Palanthas. In a few days, we’ll be there.”

“You know this road, sir?” Somehow the giff had managed to find some food and was eating again.

“During the war-the first one-I served at Palanthas. I was in the first relief column to reach the High Clerist’s Tower after Lord MarKenin’s victory over the dragonarmies.

Gomja looked up, his small eyes wide with interest. War stories were never boring and it sounded as if Teldin was about to begin one. “That must have been a magnificent thing, sir!” he said eagerly.

Teldin closed his eyes and repressed a shudder as he remembered the trek. “No, it wasn’t,” he finally responded. In his mind, Teldin could see the canyon as it had been back then. “It was wintertime and the pass was closed by snow. Our column marched just as the thaw began, and we had to break through the melting crust to reach the tower. The water was running high and the road was washed out more than once. Three men were swept away by that-” Teldin opened his eyes and pointed to the stream alongside them- and their bodies weren’t found until the spring. Half the men in my company were frostbitten by the time we reached the tower. And that’s where things got even worse.

“The Knights of Solamnia had just ‘won’ the battle of Westgate Pass a few days before. But they were knights, not soldiers." There was no mistaking the scorn in Teldin’s voice as he remembered the past. Gomja listened intently, forgetting even to chew. “The knights were too few-and too important-to take the field and claim it. All that time, while we were bashing through the drifts to reach the tower, the Knights of Solamnia stayed inside the keep and honored their fallen commanders. They left the rest of the dead for us to bury. Three days-they let them lie out there for three days.”

Teldin closed his eyes, trying to control his rising temper. The memories were painful, even now. When he opened them again, he noticed that Vandoorm had fallen in beside them. How long the captain had been listening, Teldin did not know. “It took us two days of solid work to bury them all. Some men stood guard while the rest of us dug in the freezing wind. We couldn’t burn the bodies-there wasn’t enough wood and pitch to do the job-so we had to use picks to dig out the frozen ground for graves. We stacked twenty or thirty bodies in a single pit. When we finished that, there were still the dragons in the keep.”

‘Dragons, sir?” Gomja asked, suddenly perking up. “And dragonlances?” In his mind, the giff was trophy collecting.

“Three dragons,” Teldin answered, continuing his story while ignoring Gomja’s curiosity. “The knights had lured them in somehow, killed the lot, and then left them there. When we got to the tower, the bodies were still in the courtyards. We couldn’t bury the dragons-they were way too big, even too big to drag out through the gates-so we had to butcher them on the spot. Then we carried the slabs of frozen meat out onto the plain and burned them with the little firewood we had.” Teldin stopped his tale, waiting for the images to fade from his mind.

“That’s what war was like,” Teldin finished, looking down at the giff.

On the other side of Teldin, Vandoorm nodded in agreement. “That and waiting,” he added. “Go places and wait. Tel, you learn well.”

Gomja said nothing, at first, just looked back at Teldin. Then, with a grotesquely cheerful smile and a touch of braggadocio, he said, “It is a good thing giff are known as good soldiers. My people are always put in the forefront of the battle.”

“That’s a great place to die,” Vandoorm observed. He spat on the ground, then wiped his beard on his sleeve.

Gomja stood stiffly upright. “It is the only place to gain honor,” he insisted.

“There’s not much honor in being dead, Gomja,” Teldin said. With a flick of the reins, he brushed a fly away from his mount’s golden mane.

“A bold death does great honor to the platoon.” Gomja double-timed his step to keep pace with Teldin’s horse. “When Commander Finlei lost half his command at Burgg’s Rock, his platoon became one of the most feared- and highest paid-in five spheres. Everyone wanted to join his command. They always had work.”

Vandoorm laughed a snorting chuckle. “Creature, you speak like a true mercenary!” He picked at something in his beard, then spurred his horse forward, trotting to the head of the column, where Brun One-Eye rode.

His old friend gone, Teldjn dropped off his saddle to walk beside Gomja. “So those in this platoon died because someone paid them to?” Teldin couldn’t imagine anyone volunteering for such a deed.

“To defend the Rock was an honor, sir. Isn’t that why everyone fights?” Gomja looked down at Teldin, now alongside him. “After all, why did you join the army, sir?”

Teldin tried to remember his motives while he steered around a puddle. “When the war broke out, I was young,” he answered slowly. “I heard stories about the cruelties of the dragonarmies. I was going to go out and right those wrongs, protect the world from their injustice.” The farmer looked to see if Gomja was paying attention to his meanings, not just listening to the words. The giffs ears were turned slightly his way, so Teldin continued. “The war showed me that things weren’t quite that way, weren’t that simple. Like Vandoorm said, I was ready to save Estwilde and wipe the draconians from the face of Ansalon all by myself. By the end of it, I was happy that we made a truce-even if there were still lands in draconian hands. I just wanted to go home.” Teldin abruptly stopped and looked to the top of the canyon walls. “Defeating injustice just wasn’t all that simple, Gornja.”

The giff, a little ahead, turned and looked back. “If you say so, sir,” he murmured. His ears lay flat as he spoke. Gomja waited for Teldin to join him, and the two walked on in silence.

Late that afternoon, Vandoorm called a halt for the day. A side canyon, somewhat broader at the bottom than their own valley, looked like a good site for their camp. The company turned off the main road and picked its way around the rubble field of an old landslide. Leading men and horses, the captain let his scouts find a good section of level, sheltered ground. There the troop pitched their bed- rolls under the boughs of the mountain pines.

In the deep cuts of the canyons, the darkness of shadowed night flowed swiftly over the bottom. The peaks and ridges shone in golden pinks and browns while the valleys were filled with deepening gloom. A peacefulness settled over the group, quieting their normally boisterous evening meal.

The days of hard riding were finally catching up with Teldin, especially since the pace had at last slowed down. He was too tired to supervise Gomja’s cooking, something he had carefully done up to now. The gift’s tastes were different, to say it nicely. While the giff fussed over the stew pot on the fire, Teldin watched the stars slowly emerge through the fading twilight. When dinner came, Teldin regretted his inattention; looking at a bowl of green shreds swimming in a yellow broth, Teldin couldn’t help but be suspicious. “What is this?” he asked.

“Yaneesh,” Gomja answered, proudly setting the pot back on the fire. “You will like it, sir.” He waited for Teldin’s approval.

Again, without knowing how, Teldin mentally translated yaneesh to mean something roughly equal to boiled, spiced grass. With a sigh of resignation, the human sipped a little of the stew. The broth was tolerable, though heavily flavored with pepper. The grass, however, was grass- stringy and unchewable. He tried gnawing at a piece while the giff looked expectantly on. “It is-unique. I’ve never had, uh, yaneesh so good,” Teldin said, chewing slowly. Smiling, the giff turned back to the fire. Teldin quickly spat wads of pulp into the weeds. Diligently, Teldin worked through the bowl, disposing of the grass whenever Gomja wasn’t looking.

The meal finished, Teldin hit the sack. Gomja, as was his habit, huddled near the fire and kept watch. Eventually the giff would trade shifts with Teldin, but the farmer suspected Gomja always let the human sleep a few hours longer than was arranged. Still, the mountain nights were cold and Teldin was more than happy to wrap himself in blankets. When Gomja wasn’t watching, Teldin dug into his pack for a strip of jerky. In the darkness, he gratefully gnawed on the tough, salty chunks of dried meat. A vegetarian he was not.