The Lieutenant himself stirred me out. “Elmo’s back,
Croaker. Eat some breakfast, then report to the conference
room.” He was a sour man getting sourer every day. Sometimes
I regret having voted for him after the Captain died in Juniper.
But the Captain wished it. It was his dying request.
“Be there soonest,” I said, piling out without my
customary growl. I grabbed clothing, stirred papers, silently
mocked myself. How often did I doubt voting for the Captain
himself? Yet when he wanted to resign, we did not let him.
My quarters look nothing like a physician’s den. The walls
are floor to ceiling with old books. I have read most, after having
studied the languages in which they are written. Some are as old as
the Company itself, recounting ancient histories. Some are noble
genealogies, stolen from widely dispersed old temples and civil
offices. The rarest, and most interesting, chronicle the rise and
growth of the Domination.
The rarest of all are those in TelleKurre. The followers of the
White Rose were not gentle victors. They burned books and cities,
transported women and children, profaned ancient works of art and
famous shrines. The customary afterglow of a great
conflagration.
So there is little left to key one into the languages and
thinking and history of the losers. Some of the most plainly
written documents I possess remain totally inaccessible.
How I wish Raven were with us still, instead of dwelling among
the dead men. He had a passing familiarity with written TelleKurre.
Few outside the Lady’s intimate circle do.
Goblin stuck his head in. “You coming or not?”
I cried on his shoulder. It was the old lament. No progress. He
laughed. “Go blow in your girlfriend’s ear. She might
help.”
“When will you guys let up?” It had been fifteen
years since I wrote my last simpleminded romance about the Lady.
That was before the long retreat which led the Rebel to his doom
before the Tower at Charm. They do not let you forget.
“Never, Croaker. Never. Who else has spent the night with
her? Who else goes carpet-flying with her?”
I would rather forget. Those were times of terror, not
romance.
She became aware of my annalistic endeavors and asked me to show
her side. More or less. She did not censor or dictate, but did
insist I remain factual and impartial. I recall thinking she
expected defeat, wanted an unbiased history set down somewhere.
Goblin glanced at the mound of documents. “You can’t
get any handle on it?”
“I don’t think there is a handle. Everything I do
translate turns out a big nothing. Somebody’s expense record.
An appointment calendar. A promotions list. A letter from some
officer to a friend at court. Everything way older than what
I’m looking for.”
Goblin raised an eyebrow.
“I’ll keep on trying.” There was something
there. We took them from Whisper, when she was a Rebel. They meant
a lot to her. And our mentor then, Soulcatcher, thought them of
empire-toppling significance.
Thoughtfully, Goblin remarked, “Sometimes the whole is
greater than the sum of its parts. Maybe you should look for what
ties it all together.”
The thought had occurred to me. A name here, there, elsewhere,
revealing the wake of someone through his or her earlier days.
Maybe I would find it. The comet would not return for a long
time.
But I had my doubts.
Darling is a young thing yet, just into her middle twenties. But
the bloom of youth has abandoned her. Hard years have piled on hard
years. There is little feminine about her. She had no chance to
develop in that direction. Even after two years on the Plain none
of us think of her as Woman.
She is tall, maybe two inches under six feet. Her eyes are a
washed-out blue that often seems vacant, but they become swords of
ice when she is thwarted. Her hair is blonde, as from much exposure
to the sun. Without continuous attention it hangs in straggles and
strings. Not vain, she keeps it shorter than is stylish. In dress,
too, she leans toward the utilitarian. Some first-time visitors are
offended because she dresses so masculine. But she leaves them with
no doubts that she can handle business.
Her role came to her unwanted, but she has made peace with it,
has assumed it with stubborn determination. She shows a wisdom
remarkable for her age, and for one handicapped as she is. Raven
taught her well during those few years he was her guardian.
She was pacing when I arrived. The conference room is
earth-sided, smokey, crowded even when empty. It smells of long
occupation by too many unclean men. The old messenger from Oar was
there. So were Tracker and Corder and several other outsiders. Most
of the Company were present. I finger-signed a greeting. Darling
gave me a sisterly hug, asked if I had any progress to report.
I spoke for the group and signed for her. “I am sure we
don’t have all the documents we found in the Forest of Cloud.
Not just because I can’t identify what I’m looking for,
either. Everything I do have is too old.”
Darling’s features are regular. Nothing stands out. Yet
you sense character, will, that this woman cannot be broken. She
has been to Hell already. It did not touch her as a child. She will
not be touched now.
She was not pleased. She signed, “We will not have the
time we thought.”
My attention was half elsewhere. I had hoped for sparks between
Tracker and the other westerner. On a gut level I had responded
negatively to Tracker. I found myself with an irrational hope for
evidence to sustain that reaction.
Nothing.
Not surprising. The cell structure of the movement keeps our
sympathizers insulated from one another.
Darling wanted to hear from Goblin and One-Eye next. Goblin used
his squeakiest voice. “Everything we heard is true. They are
reinforcing their garrisons. But Corder can tell you better. For
us, the mission was a bust. They were ready. They chased us all
over the Plain. We were lucky to get away. We didn’t get no
help, either.”
The menhirs and their weird pals are on our side, supposedly.
Sometimes I wonder. They are unpredictable. They help or
don’t according to a formula only they understand.
Darling was little interested in details of the failed raid. She
moved on to Corder. He said, “Armies are gathering on both
sides of the Plain. Under command of the Taken.”
“Taken?” I asked. I knew of only the two. He sounded
like he meant many.
A chill then. There is a longtime rumor that the Lady has been
quiet so long because she is raising a new crop of Taken. I had not
believed it. The age is sorrowfully short of characters of the
magnificently villainous vitality of those the Dominator took in
olden times: Soulcatcher, the Hanged Man, Nightcrawler,
Shapeshifter, the Limper, and such. Those were nastymen of the
grand scope, nearly as wild and hairy in their wickedness as the
Lady and Dominator themselves. This is the era of the weak sister,
excepting only Darling and Whisper.
Corder responded shyly. “The rumors are true,
Lord.”
Lord. Me. Because I stand near the heart of the dream. I hate
it, yet eat it up. “Yes?”
“They may not be Stormbringers or Howlers, these new
Taken.” He smiled feebly. “Sir Tucker observed that the
old Taken were wild devils as unpredictable as the lightning, and
the new ones are the predictable tame thunder of bureaucracy. If
you follow my meaning.”
“I do. Go on.”
“It is believed that there are six new ones, Lord. Sir
Tucker believes they are about to be unleashed. Thus the great
buildup around the Plain. Sir Tucker believes the Lady has made a
competition of our destruction.”
Tucker. Our most dedicated agent. One of the few survivors of
the long siege of Rust. His hatred knows no bounds.
Corder had a strange look. A green-around-the-edges look. A look
that said there was more, and all bad. “Well?” I said.
“Spit it out.”
“The names of the Taken have been enscribed on stellae
raised in their respective demenses. At Rust the army commander is
named Benefice. His stella appeared after a carpet arrived by
night. He has not actually been seen.”
That bore investigation. Only the Taken can manage a carpet. But
no carpet can reach Rust without crossing the Plain of Fear. The
menhirs have reported no such passage. “Benefice? Interesting
name. The others?”
“In Thud the Stella bears the name Blister.”
Chuckles. I said, “I liked it better when the names were
descriptive. Like the Limper, Moonbiter, the Faceless
Man.”
“At Frost we have one called the Creeper.”
“That’s better.” Darling gave me a cautionary
look.
“At Rue there is one called Learned. And at Hull, one
called Scorn.”
“Scorn. I like that, too.”
“The western bounds of the Plain are held by Whisper and
Journey, both operating from a village called Spit.”
Being a natural mathematical phenom, I summed and said,
“That’s five new ones and two old. Where is the other
new one?”
“I don’t know. The only other is the commander over
all. His stella stands in the military compound outside
Rust.”
The way he said that abraded my nerves. He was pale. He started
shaking. A premonition gripped me. I knew I would not like what he
said next. But, “Well?”
“That stella bears the sigil of the Limper.”
Right. So right. I did not like it at all.
The feeling was universal.
“Oh!” Goblin shrieked.
One-Eye said, “Holy shit,” in a soft awed tone that
was all the more meaningful for its reserve.
I sat down. Right there. Right in the middle of the floor. I
folded my head in my hands. I wanted to cry.
“Impossible,” I said. “I killed him. With my own
hands.” And saying it, I did not believe it anymore, though I
had had faith in that fact for years. “But how?”
“Can’t keep a good man down,” Elmo chided.
That he was shaken was evidenced by the smart remark. Elmo says
nothing gratuitously.
The feud between the Limper and the Company dates to our arrival
north of the Sea of Torments, for it was then that we enlisted
Raven, a mysterious native of Opal, a man of former high estate who
had been done out of his titles and livings by minions of the
Limper. Raven was as tough as they come, and utterly fearless. The
robbery sanctioned by Taken or not, he struck back. He slew the
villains, among them the Limper’s most competent people. Then
our path kept crossing the Limper’s. Each time something
worsened the weather between us . . .
In the confusion after Juniper, Limper thought to settle with
us. I engineered an ambush. He charged in. “I would have bet
anything I killed him.” I tell you, at that moment I was as
rattled as ever I have been. I was on the precipice of panic.
One-Eye noticed. “Don’t get hysterical, Croaker. We
survived him before.”
“He’s one of the old ones, idiot! One of the real
Taken. From times when they had real wizards. And he’s never
really been allowed to go full speed at us before. And with all
that help.” Eight Taken and five armies to assault the Plain
of Fear. Seldom were there more than seventy of us here in the
Hole.
My head filled with terrible visions. Those Taken might be
second-rate, but they were so many. Their fury would fire the
Plain. Whisper and the Limper have campaigned here before. They are
not ignorant of the Plain’s perils. In fact, Whisper battled
here both as a Rebel and as Taken. She won most of the most famous
battles of the eastern war.
Reason reasserted itself but did little to brighten tomorrow.
Once I thought, I reached the inescapeable conclusion that Whisper
knows the Plain too well. Might even have allies out here.
Darling touched my shoulder. That was more calming than any
words from friends. Her confidence is contagious. She signed,
“Now we know,” and smiled.
Still, time has become a hanging hammer about to fall. The long
wait for the comet has been rendered irrelevant. We have to survive
right now. Trying for a bright side, I said, “The
Limper’s true name is somewhere in my document
collection.”
But that recalled my problem. “Darling, the specific
document I want is not there.”
She raised an eyebrow. Unable to speak, she has developed one of
the most expressive faces I’ve ever seen.
“We have to have a sit-down. When you have time. To go
over exactly what happened to those papers while Raven had them.
Some are missing. They were there when I turned them over to
Soulcatcher. They were there when I got them back from her. I am
sure they were there when Raven took them. What happened to them
later?”
“Tonight,” she signed. “I will make
time.” She seemed distracted suddenly. Because I mentioned
Raven? He meant a lot to her, but you’d think the edge would
be off by now. Unless there was more to the story than I knew. And
that was plenty possible. I really have no idea what their
relationship became in the years after Raven left the Company. His
death certainly bothers her still. Because it was so pointless. I
mean, after surviving everything the shadow threw his way, he
drowned in a public bath.
The Lieutenant says there are nights she cries herself to sleep.
He does not know why, but he suspects Raven is at the root.
I have asked her about those years when they were on their own,
but she will not tell the tale. The emotional impression I get is
one of sorrow and grave disappointment.
She pushed her troubles away now, turned to Tracker and his
mutt. Behind them, the men Elmo caught on the bluff squirmed. Their
turn was coming. They knew the reputation of the Black Company.
But we did not get to them. Nor even to Tracker and Toadkiller
Dog. For the watch above shrieked another alert.
This was getting tiresome.
The rider crossed the stream as I entered the coral. Water
splashed. His mount staggered. It was covered with foam. Never
again would it run well. It hurt me to see an animal so broken. But
its rider had cause.
Two Taken darted about just beyond the bound of the null. One
flung a violet bolt. It perished long before it reached us. One-Eye
cackled and raised a middle finger. “Always wanted to do
that.”
“Oh, wonder of wonders,” Goblin squeaked, looking
the other way. A number of mantas, big blue-blacks, soared off the
rosy bluffs, caught updrafts. Must have been a dozen, though they
were hard to count, maneuvering as they did to avoid stealing one
another’s wind. These were giants of their kind. Their wings
spanned almost a hundred feet. When they were high enough, they
dove at the Taken in pairs.
The rider halted, fell. He had an arrow in his back. He remained
conscious just long enough to gasp, “Tokens!”
The first manta pair, seeming to move with slow stately grace,
though actually they streaked ten times faster than a man can run,
ripped past the nearer Taken just inside Darling’s null. Each
loosed a brilliant lightning bolt. Lightning could speed where
Taken witchery would not survive.
One bolt hit. Taken and carpet reeled, glowed briefly. Smoke
appeared. The carpet twisted and spun earthward. We sent up a
ragged cheer.
The Taken regained control, rose clumsily, drifted away.
I knelt by the messenger. He was little more than a boy. He was
alive. He had a chance if I got to work. “A little help here!
One-Eye.”
Manta pairs ripped along the boundary of the null, blasting away
at the second Taken. This one evaded effortlessly, did nothing to
fight back. “That’s Whisper,” Elmo said.
“Yeah,” I said. She knows her way around.
One-Eye grumbled, “You going to help this kid or not,
Croaker?”
“All right. All right.” I hated to miss the show. It
was the first I had seen so many mantas, the first I had seen them
support us. I wanted to see more.
“Well,” said Elmo, while calming the boy’s
horse and going through his saddlebags, “another missive for
our esteemed annalist.” He proffered another oilskin packet.
Baffled, I tucked it under my arm, then helped One-Eye carry the
messenger down into the Hole.
The Lieutenant himself stirred me out. “Elmo’s back,
Croaker. Eat some breakfast, then report to the conference
room.” He was a sour man getting sourer every day. Sometimes
I regret having voted for him after the Captain died in Juniper.
But the Captain wished it. It was his dying request.
“Be there soonest,” I said, piling out without my
customary growl. I grabbed clothing, stirred papers, silently
mocked myself. How often did I doubt voting for the Captain
himself? Yet when he wanted to resign, we did not let him.
My quarters look nothing like a physician’s den. The walls
are floor to ceiling with old books. I have read most, after having
studied the languages in which they are written. Some are as old as
the Company itself, recounting ancient histories. Some are noble
genealogies, stolen from widely dispersed old temples and civil
offices. The rarest, and most interesting, chronicle the rise and
growth of the Domination.
The rarest of all are those in TelleKurre. The followers of the
White Rose were not gentle victors. They burned books and cities,
transported women and children, profaned ancient works of art and
famous shrines. The customary afterglow of a great
conflagration.
So there is little left to key one into the languages and
thinking and history of the losers. Some of the most plainly
written documents I possess remain totally inaccessible.
How I wish Raven were with us still, instead of dwelling among
the dead men. He had a passing familiarity with written TelleKurre.
Few outside the Lady’s intimate circle do.
Goblin stuck his head in. “You coming or not?”
I cried on his shoulder. It was the old lament. No progress. He
laughed. “Go blow in your girlfriend’s ear. She might
help.”
“When will you guys let up?” It had been fifteen
years since I wrote my last simpleminded romance about the Lady.
That was before the long retreat which led the Rebel to his doom
before the Tower at Charm. They do not let you forget.
“Never, Croaker. Never. Who else has spent the night with
her? Who else goes carpet-flying with her?”
I would rather forget. Those were times of terror, not
romance.
She became aware of my annalistic endeavors and asked me to show
her side. More or less. She did not censor or dictate, but did
insist I remain factual and impartial. I recall thinking she
expected defeat, wanted an unbiased history set down somewhere.
Goblin glanced at the mound of documents. “You can’t
get any handle on it?”
“I don’t think there is a handle. Everything I do
translate turns out a big nothing. Somebody’s expense record.
An appointment calendar. A promotions list. A letter from some
officer to a friend at court. Everything way older than what
I’m looking for.”
Goblin raised an eyebrow.
“I’ll keep on trying.” There was something
there. We took them from Whisper, when she was a Rebel. They meant
a lot to her. And our mentor then, Soulcatcher, thought them of
empire-toppling significance.
Thoughtfully, Goblin remarked, “Sometimes the whole is
greater than the sum of its parts. Maybe you should look for what
ties it all together.”
The thought had occurred to me. A name here, there, elsewhere,
revealing the wake of someone through his or her earlier days.
Maybe I would find it. The comet would not return for a long
time.
But I had my doubts.
Darling is a young thing yet, just into her middle twenties. But
the bloom of youth has abandoned her. Hard years have piled on hard
years. There is little feminine about her. She had no chance to
develop in that direction. Even after two years on the Plain none
of us think of her as Woman.
She is tall, maybe two inches under six feet. Her eyes are a
washed-out blue that often seems vacant, but they become swords of
ice when she is thwarted. Her hair is blonde, as from much exposure
to the sun. Without continuous attention it hangs in straggles and
strings. Not vain, she keeps it shorter than is stylish. In dress,
too, she leans toward the utilitarian. Some first-time visitors are
offended because she dresses so masculine. But she leaves them with
no doubts that she can handle business.
Her role came to her unwanted, but she has made peace with it,
has assumed it with stubborn determination. She shows a wisdom
remarkable for her age, and for one handicapped as she is. Raven
taught her well during those few years he was her guardian.
She was pacing when I arrived. The conference room is
earth-sided, smokey, crowded even when empty. It smells of long
occupation by too many unclean men. The old messenger from Oar was
there. So were Tracker and Corder and several other outsiders. Most
of the Company were present. I finger-signed a greeting. Darling
gave me a sisterly hug, asked if I had any progress to report.
I spoke for the group and signed for her. “I am sure we
don’t have all the documents we found in the Forest of Cloud.
Not just because I can’t identify what I’m looking for,
either. Everything I do have is too old.”
Darling’s features are regular. Nothing stands out. Yet
you sense character, will, that this woman cannot be broken. She
has been to Hell already. It did not touch her as a child. She will
not be touched now.
She was not pleased. She signed, “We will not have the
time we thought.”
My attention was half elsewhere. I had hoped for sparks between
Tracker and the other westerner. On a gut level I had responded
negatively to Tracker. I found myself with an irrational hope for
evidence to sustain that reaction.
Nothing.
Not surprising. The cell structure of the movement keeps our
sympathizers insulated from one another.
Darling wanted to hear from Goblin and One-Eye next. Goblin used
his squeakiest voice. “Everything we heard is true. They are
reinforcing their garrisons. But Corder can tell you better. For
us, the mission was a bust. They were ready. They chased us all
over the Plain. We were lucky to get away. We didn’t get no
help, either.”
The menhirs and their weird pals are on our side, supposedly.
Sometimes I wonder. They are unpredictable. They help or
don’t according to a formula only they understand.
Darling was little interested in details of the failed raid. She
moved on to Corder. He said, “Armies are gathering on both
sides of the Plain. Under command of the Taken.”
“Taken?” I asked. I knew of only the two. He sounded
like he meant many.
A chill then. There is a longtime rumor that the Lady has been
quiet so long because she is raising a new crop of Taken. I had not
believed it. The age is sorrowfully short of characters of the
magnificently villainous vitality of those the Dominator took in
olden times: Soulcatcher, the Hanged Man, Nightcrawler,
Shapeshifter, the Limper, and such. Those were nastymen of the
grand scope, nearly as wild and hairy in their wickedness as the
Lady and Dominator themselves. This is the era of the weak sister,
excepting only Darling and Whisper.
Corder responded shyly. “The rumors are true,
Lord.”
Lord. Me. Because I stand near the heart of the dream. I hate
it, yet eat it up. “Yes?”
“They may not be Stormbringers or Howlers, these new
Taken.” He smiled feebly. “Sir Tucker observed that the
old Taken were wild devils as unpredictable as the lightning, and
the new ones are the predictable tame thunder of bureaucracy. If
you follow my meaning.”
“I do. Go on.”
“It is believed that there are six new ones, Lord. Sir
Tucker believes they are about to be unleashed. Thus the great
buildup around the Plain. Sir Tucker believes the Lady has made a
competition of our destruction.”
Tucker. Our most dedicated agent. One of the few survivors of
the long siege of Rust. His hatred knows no bounds.
Corder had a strange look. A green-around-the-edges look. A look
that said there was more, and all bad. “Well?” I said.
“Spit it out.”
“The names of the Taken have been enscribed on stellae
raised in their respective demenses. At Rust the army commander is
named Benefice. His stella appeared after a carpet arrived by
night. He has not actually been seen.”
That bore investigation. Only the Taken can manage a carpet. But
no carpet can reach Rust without crossing the Plain of Fear. The
menhirs have reported no such passage. “Benefice? Interesting
name. The others?”
“In Thud the Stella bears the name Blister.”
Chuckles. I said, “I liked it better when the names were
descriptive. Like the Limper, Moonbiter, the Faceless
Man.”
“At Frost we have one called the Creeper.”
“That’s better.” Darling gave me a cautionary
look.
“At Rue there is one called Learned. And at Hull, one
called Scorn.”
“Scorn. I like that, too.”
“The western bounds of the Plain are held by Whisper and
Journey, both operating from a village called Spit.”
Being a natural mathematical phenom, I summed and said,
“That’s five new ones and two old. Where is the other
new one?”
“I don’t know. The only other is the commander over
all. His stella stands in the military compound outside
Rust.”
The way he said that abraded my nerves. He was pale. He started
shaking. A premonition gripped me. I knew I would not like what he
said next. But, “Well?”
“That stella bears the sigil of the Limper.”
Right. So right. I did not like it at all.
The feeling was universal.
“Oh!” Goblin shrieked.
One-Eye said, “Holy shit,” in a soft awed tone that
was all the more meaningful for its reserve.
I sat down. Right there. Right in the middle of the floor. I
folded my head in my hands. I wanted to cry.
“Impossible,” I said. “I killed him. With my own
hands.” And saying it, I did not believe it anymore, though I
had had faith in that fact for years. “But how?”
“Can’t keep a good man down,” Elmo chided.
That he was shaken was evidenced by the smart remark. Elmo says
nothing gratuitously.
The feud between the Limper and the Company dates to our arrival
north of the Sea of Torments, for it was then that we enlisted
Raven, a mysterious native of Opal, a man of former high estate who
had been done out of his titles and livings by minions of the
Limper. Raven was as tough as they come, and utterly fearless. The
robbery sanctioned by Taken or not, he struck back. He slew the
villains, among them the Limper’s most competent people. Then
our path kept crossing the Limper’s. Each time something
worsened the weather between us . . .
In the confusion after Juniper, Limper thought to settle with
us. I engineered an ambush. He charged in. “I would have bet
anything I killed him.” I tell you, at that moment I was as
rattled as ever I have been. I was on the precipice of panic.
One-Eye noticed. “Don’t get hysterical, Croaker. We
survived him before.”
“He’s one of the old ones, idiot! One of the real
Taken. From times when they had real wizards. And he’s never
really been allowed to go full speed at us before. And with all
that help.” Eight Taken and five armies to assault the Plain
of Fear. Seldom were there more than seventy of us here in the
Hole.
My head filled with terrible visions. Those Taken might be
second-rate, but they were so many. Their fury would fire the
Plain. Whisper and the Limper have campaigned here before. They are
not ignorant of the Plain’s perils. In fact, Whisper battled
here both as a Rebel and as Taken. She won most of the most famous
battles of the eastern war.
Reason reasserted itself but did little to brighten tomorrow.
Once I thought, I reached the inescapeable conclusion that Whisper
knows the Plain too well. Might even have allies out here.
Darling touched my shoulder. That was more calming than any
words from friends. Her confidence is contagious. She signed,
“Now we know,” and smiled.
Still, time has become a hanging hammer about to fall. The long
wait for the comet has been rendered irrelevant. We have to survive
right now. Trying for a bright side, I said, “The
Limper’s true name is somewhere in my document
collection.”
But that recalled my problem. “Darling, the specific
document I want is not there.”
She raised an eyebrow. Unable to speak, she has developed one of
the most expressive faces I’ve ever seen.
“We have to have a sit-down. When you have time. To go
over exactly what happened to those papers while Raven had them.
Some are missing. They were there when I turned them over to
Soulcatcher. They were there when I got them back from her. I am
sure they were there when Raven took them. What happened to them
later?”
“Tonight,” she signed. “I will make
time.” She seemed distracted suddenly. Because I mentioned
Raven? He meant a lot to her, but you’d think the edge would
be off by now. Unless there was more to the story than I knew. And
that was plenty possible. I really have no idea what their
relationship became in the years after Raven left the Company. His
death certainly bothers her still. Because it was so pointless. I
mean, after surviving everything the shadow threw his way, he
drowned in a public bath.
The Lieutenant says there are nights she cries herself to sleep.
He does not know why, but he suspects Raven is at the root.
I have asked her about those years when they were on their own,
but she will not tell the tale. The emotional impression I get is
one of sorrow and grave disappointment.
She pushed her troubles away now, turned to Tracker and his
mutt. Behind them, the men Elmo caught on the bluff squirmed. Their
turn was coming. They knew the reputation of the Black Company.
But we did not get to them. Nor even to Tracker and Toadkiller
Dog. For the watch above shrieked another alert.
This was getting tiresome.
The rider crossed the stream as I entered the coral. Water
splashed. His mount staggered. It was covered with foam. Never
again would it run well. It hurt me to see an animal so broken. But
its rider had cause.
Two Taken darted about just beyond the bound of the null. One
flung a violet bolt. It perished long before it reached us. One-Eye
cackled and raised a middle finger. “Always wanted to do
that.”
“Oh, wonder of wonders,” Goblin squeaked, looking
the other way. A number of mantas, big blue-blacks, soared off the
rosy bluffs, caught updrafts. Must have been a dozen, though they
were hard to count, maneuvering as they did to avoid stealing one
another’s wind. These were giants of their kind. Their wings
spanned almost a hundred feet. When they were high enough, they
dove at the Taken in pairs.
The rider halted, fell. He had an arrow in his back. He remained
conscious just long enough to gasp, “Tokens!”
The first manta pair, seeming to move with slow stately grace,
though actually they streaked ten times faster than a man can run,
ripped past the nearer Taken just inside Darling’s null. Each
loosed a brilliant lightning bolt. Lightning could speed where
Taken witchery would not survive.
One bolt hit. Taken and carpet reeled, glowed briefly. Smoke
appeared. The carpet twisted and spun earthward. We sent up a
ragged cheer.
The Taken regained control, rose clumsily, drifted away.
I knelt by the messenger. He was little more than a boy. He was
alive. He had a chance if I got to work. “A little help here!
One-Eye.”
Manta pairs ripped along the boundary of the null, blasting away
at the second Taken. This one evaded effortlessly, did nothing to
fight back. “That’s Whisper,” Elmo said.
“Yeah,” I said. She knows her way around.
One-Eye grumbled, “You going to help this kid or not,
Croaker?”
“All right. All right.” I hated to miss the show. It
was the first I had seen so many mantas, the first I had seen them
support us. I wanted to see more.
“Well,” said Elmo, while calming the boy’s
horse and going through his saddlebags, “another missive for
our esteemed annalist.” He proffered another oilskin packet.
Baffled, I tucked it under my arm, then helped One-Eye carry the
messenger down into the Hole.