The rain never ceased. Mostly it was little more than a drizzle.
When the day went especially well, it slackened to a falling mist.
But always there was precipitation. Corbie went out anyway, though
he complained often about aches in his leg.
“If the weather bothers you so, why stay here?” Case
asked. “You said you think your kids live in Opal. Why not go
down there and look for them yourself? At least the weather would
be decent.”
It was a tough question. Corbie had yet to create a convincing
answer. He had not yet found one that would do himself, let alone
enemies who might ask.
There was nothing Corbie was afraid to do. In another life, as
another man, he had challenged the hellmakers themselves, unafraid.
Swords and sorcery and death could not intimidate him. Only people,
and love, could terrify him.
“Habit, I guess,” he said. Weakly. “Maybe I
could live in Oar. Maybe. I don’t deal well with people,
Case. I don’t like them that much. I couldn’t stand the
Jewel Cities. Did I tell you I was down there once?”
Case had heard the story several times. He suspected Corbie had
been more than down there. He thought one of the Jewel Cities was
Corbie’s original home. “Yeah. When the big Rebel push
in Forsberg started. You told me about seeing the Tower on the way
up.”
“That’s right. I did. Memory’s slipping.
Cities. I don’t like them, lad. Don’t like them. Too
many people. Sometimes there’s too many of them here. Was
when I first came.
Nowadays it’s about right. About right. Maybe too much
fuss and bother because of the undead over there.” He poked
his chin toward the Great Barrow. “But otherwise about right.
One or two of you guys I can talk to. Nobody else to get in my
way.”
Case nodded. He thought he understood while not understanding.
He had known other old veterans. Most had had their peculiarities.
“Hey! Corbie. You ever run into the Black Company when you
was up here?”
Corbie froze, stared with such intensity the young soldier
blushed. “Uh . . . What’s the
matter, Corbie? I say something wrong?”
Corbie resumed walking, his limp not slowing a furiously
increased pace. “It was odd. Like you were reading my mind.
Yes. I ran into those guys. Bad people. Very bad people.”
“My dad told us stories about them. He was with them
during the long retreat to Charm. Lords, the Windy Country, the
Stair of Tear, all those battles. When he got leave time after the
battle at Charm, he came home. Told awful stories about those
guys.”
“I missed that part. I got left behind at Roses, when
Shifter and the Limper lost the battle. Who was your dad with?
You’ve never talked about him much.”
“Nightcrawler. I don’t talk about him because we
never got along.”
Corbie smiled. “Sons seldom get on with their fathers. And
that’s the voice of experience speaking.”
“What did your father do?”
Corbie laughed. “He was a farmer. Of sorts. But I’d
rather not talk about him.”
“What are we doing out here, Corbie?”
Double-checking Bomanz’s surveys. But Corbie could not
tell the lad that. Nor could he think of an adequate lie.
“Walking in the rain.”
“Corbie . . . ”
“Can we keep it quiet for a while, Case?
Please?”
“Sure.”
Corbie limped all the way around the Barrowland, maintaining a
respectful distance, never being too obvious. He did not use
equipment. That would bring Colonel Sweet on the run. Instead, he
consulted the wizard’s chart in his mind. The thing blazed
with its own life there, those arcane TelleKurre symbols glowing
with a wild and dangerous life. Studying the remains of the
Barrowland, he could find but a third of the map’s referents.
The rest had been undone by time and weather.
Corbie was no man to have trouble with his nerve. But he was
afraid now. Near the end of their stroll he said, “Case, I
want a favor. Perhaps a double favor.”
“Sir?”
“Sir? Call me Corbie.”
“You sounded so serious.”
“It is serious.”
“Say on, then.”
“Can you be trusted to keep your mouth shut?”
“If necessary.”
“I want to extract a conditional vow of
silence.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Case, I want to tell you something. In case something
happens to me.”
“Corbie!”
“I’m not a young man, Case. And I have a lot wrong
with me. I’ve been through a lot. I feel it catching up. I
don’t expect to go soon. But things happen. If something
should, there’s something I don’t want to die with
me.”
“Okay, Corbie.”
“If I suggested something, can you keep it to yourself?
Even if you think you maybe shouldn’t? Can you do something
for me?”
“You’re making it hard, not telling me.”
“I know. It’s not fair. The only other man I trust
is Colonel Sweet. And his position wouldn’t let him make such
a promise.”
“It’s not illegal?”
“Not strictly speaking.”
“I guess.”
“Don’t guess, Case.”
“All right. You have my word.”
“Good. Thank you. It is appreciated, never doubt that.
Two things. First. If something happens to me, go to the room on
the second floor of my home. If I have left an oilskin packet on
the table there, see that it gets to a blacksmith named Sand, in
Oar.”
Case looked suitably dubious and baffled.
“Second, after you do that—and only after—tell the Colonel
the undead are stirring.”
Case stopped walking.
“Case.” There was a note of command in
Corbie’s voice the youth had not heard before.
“Yes. All right.”
“That’s it.”
“Corbie . . . ”
“No questions now. In a few weeks, maybe I can explain
everything. All right?”
“Okay.”
“Not a word now. And remember. Packet to Sand the
blacksmith. Then word to the Colonel. Tell you what. If I can,
I’ll leave the Colonel a letter, too.”
Case merely nodded.
Corbie took a deep breath. It had been twenty years since he had
attempted the simplest divining spell. Never had he tried anything
on the order of what he now faced. Back in those ancient times,
when he was another man, or boy, sorcery was a diversion for
wealthy youths who would rather play wizard than pursue legitimate
studies.
All was ready. The tools of the sorcerer appropriate to the task
lay on the table on the second floor of the house that Bomanz
built. It was fitting that he follow the old one.
He touched the oilskin packet left for Case, the opaque letter
to Sweet, and prayed neither would touch the young man’s
hands. But if what he suspected were true, it was better the enemy
knew than the world be surprised.
There was nothing left to do but do it. He gulped half a cup of
cold tea, took his seat. He closed his eyes, began a chant taught
him when he was younger than Case. His was not the method Bomanz
had used, but it was as effective.
His body would not relax, would not cease distracting him.
But at last the full lethargy closed in. His ka loosed its ten
thousand anchors to his flesh.
Part of him insisted he was a fool for attempting this without
the skills of a master. But he hadn’t the time for the
training a Bomanz required. He had learned what he could during his
absence from the Old Forest.
Free of the flesh, yet connected by invisible bonds that would
draw him back. If his luck held. He moved away carefully. He
conformed to the rule of bodies exactly. He used the stairway, the
doorway, and the sidewalks built by the Guard. Maintain the
pretense of flesh and the flesh would be harder to forget.
The world looked different. Each object had its unique aura. He
found it difficult to concentrate on the grand task.
He moved to the bounds of the Barrowland. He shuddered under the
impact of thrumming old spells that kept the Dominator and several
lesser minions bound. The power there! Carefully, he walked the
boundary till he found the way that Bomanz had opened, still not
fully healed.
He stepped over the line.
He drew the instant attention of every spirit, benign and
malign, chained within the Barrowland. There were far more than he
expected. Far more than the wizard’s map indicated. Those
soldier symbols that surrounded the Great
Barrow . . . They were not statues. They were
men, soldiers of the White Rose, who had been set as spirit guards
perpetually standing between the world and the monster that would
devour it. How driven must they have been. How dedicated to their
cause.
The path wound past the former resting places of old Taken,
outer circle, inner circle, twisting. Within the inner circle he
saw the true forms of several lesser monsters that had served the
Domination. The path stretched like a trail of pale silver mist.
Behind him that mist became more dense, his passage strengthening
the way.
Ahead, stronger spells. And all those men who had gone into the
earth to surround the Dominator. And beyond them, the greater fear.
The dragon thing that, on Bomanz’s map, lay coiled around the
crypt in the heart of the Great Barrow.
Spirits shrieked at him in TelleKurre, in UchiTelle, in
languages he did not know and tongues vaguely like some still
current. One and all, they cursed him. One and all, he ignored
them. There was a thing in a chamber beneath the greatest mound. He
had to see if it lay as restless as he suspected.
The dragon. Oh, by all the gods that never were, that dragon was
real. Real, alive, of flesh, yet it sensed and saw him. The silver
trail curved past its jaws, through the gap between teeth and tail.
It beat at him with a palpable will. But he would not be
stayed.
No more guardians. Just the crypt. And the monster man inside
was constrained. He had survived the
worst . . .
The old devil should be sleeping. Hadn’t the Lady defeated
him in his attempt to escape through Juniper? Hadn’t she put
him back down?
It was a tomb like many around the world. Perhaps a bit richer.
The White Rose had laid her opponents down in style. There were no
sarcophagi, though. There. That empty table was where the Lady
would have lain.
The other boasted a sleeping man. A big man, and handsome, but
with the mark of the beast upon him, even in repose. A face full of
hot hatred, of the anger of defeat.
Ah, then. His suspicions were groundless. The monster slept
indeed . . .
The Dominator sat up. And smiled. His smile was the most wicked
Corbie had ever seen. Then the undead extended a hand in welcome.
Corbie ran.
Mocking laughter pursued him.
Panic was an emotion entirely unfamiliar. Seldom had he
experienced it. He could not control it. He was only vaguely aware
of passing the dragon and the hate-filled spirits of White Rose
soldiers. He barely sensed the Dominator’s creatures beyond,
all howling in delight.
Even in his panic he clung to the misty trail. He made only one
misstep . . .
But that was sufficient.
The storm broke over the Barrowland. It was the most furious in
living memory. The lightning clashed with the ferocity of heavenly
armies, hammers and spears and swords of fire smiting earth and
sky. The downpour was incessant and impenetrable.
One mighty bolt struck the Barrowland. Earth and shrubbery flew
a hundred yards into the air. The earth staggered. The Eternal
Guard scrambled to arms terrified, sure the old evil had broken its
chains.
On the Barrowland two large shapes, one four-footed, one
bipedal, formed in the afterglow of the lightning strike. In a
moment both raced along a twisting path, leaving no mark upon water
or mud. They passed the bounds of the Barrowland, fled toward the
forest.
No one saw them. When the Guard reached the Barrowland, carrying
weapons and lanterns and fear like vast loads of lead, the storm
had waned. The lightning had ceased its boisterous brawl. The rain
had fallen off to normal.
Colonel Sweet and his men spent hours roaming the bounds of the
Barrowland. No one found a thing.
The Eternal Guard returned to its compound cursing the gods and
weather.
On the second floor of Corbie’s house Corbie’s body
continued to breathe one breath each five minutes. His heart barely
turned over. He would be a long time dying without his spirit.
The rain never ceased. Mostly it was little more than a drizzle.
When the day went especially well, it slackened to a falling mist.
But always there was precipitation. Corbie went out anyway, though
he complained often about aches in his leg.
“If the weather bothers you so, why stay here?” Case
asked. “You said you think your kids live in Opal. Why not go
down there and look for them yourself? At least the weather would
be decent.”
It was a tough question. Corbie had yet to create a convincing
answer. He had not yet found one that would do himself, let alone
enemies who might ask.
There was nothing Corbie was afraid to do. In another life, as
another man, he had challenged the hellmakers themselves, unafraid.
Swords and sorcery and death could not intimidate him. Only people,
and love, could terrify him.
“Habit, I guess,” he said. Weakly. “Maybe I
could live in Oar. Maybe. I don’t deal well with people,
Case. I don’t like them that much. I couldn’t stand the
Jewel Cities. Did I tell you I was down there once?”
Case had heard the story several times. He suspected Corbie had
been more than down there. He thought one of the Jewel Cities was
Corbie’s original home. “Yeah. When the big Rebel push
in Forsberg started. You told me about seeing the Tower on the way
up.”
“That’s right. I did. Memory’s slipping.
Cities. I don’t like them, lad. Don’t like them. Too
many people. Sometimes there’s too many of them here. Was
when I first came.
Nowadays it’s about right. About right. Maybe too much
fuss and bother because of the undead over there.” He poked
his chin toward the Great Barrow. “But otherwise about right.
One or two of you guys I can talk to. Nobody else to get in my
way.”
Case nodded. He thought he understood while not understanding.
He had known other old veterans. Most had had their peculiarities.
“Hey! Corbie. You ever run into the Black Company when you
was up here?”
Corbie froze, stared with such intensity the young soldier
blushed. “Uh . . . What’s the
matter, Corbie? I say something wrong?”
Corbie resumed walking, his limp not slowing a furiously
increased pace. “It was odd. Like you were reading my mind.
Yes. I ran into those guys. Bad people. Very bad people.”
“My dad told us stories about them. He was with them
during the long retreat to Charm. Lords, the Windy Country, the
Stair of Tear, all those battles. When he got leave time after the
battle at Charm, he came home. Told awful stories about those
guys.”
“I missed that part. I got left behind at Roses, when
Shifter and the Limper lost the battle. Who was your dad with?
You’ve never talked about him much.”
“Nightcrawler. I don’t talk about him because we
never got along.”
Corbie smiled. “Sons seldom get on with their fathers. And
that’s the voice of experience speaking.”
“What did your father do?”
Corbie laughed. “He was a farmer. Of sorts. But I’d
rather not talk about him.”
“What are we doing out here, Corbie?”
Double-checking Bomanz’s surveys. But Corbie could not
tell the lad that. Nor could he think of an adequate lie.
“Walking in the rain.”
“Corbie . . . ”
“Can we keep it quiet for a while, Case?
Please?”
“Sure.”
Corbie limped all the way around the Barrowland, maintaining a
respectful distance, never being too obvious. He did not use
equipment. That would bring Colonel Sweet on the run. Instead, he
consulted the wizard’s chart in his mind. The thing blazed
with its own life there, those arcane TelleKurre symbols glowing
with a wild and dangerous life. Studying the remains of the
Barrowland, he could find but a third of the map’s referents.
The rest had been undone by time and weather.
Corbie was no man to have trouble with his nerve. But he was
afraid now. Near the end of their stroll he said, “Case, I
want a favor. Perhaps a double favor.”
“Sir?”
“Sir? Call me Corbie.”
“You sounded so serious.”
“It is serious.”
“Say on, then.”
“Can you be trusted to keep your mouth shut?”
“If necessary.”
“I want to extract a conditional vow of
silence.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Case, I want to tell you something. In case something
happens to me.”
“Corbie!”
“I’m not a young man, Case. And I have a lot wrong
with me. I’ve been through a lot. I feel it catching up. I
don’t expect to go soon. But things happen. If something
should, there’s something I don’t want to die with
me.”
“Okay, Corbie.”
“If I suggested something, can you keep it to yourself?
Even if you think you maybe shouldn’t? Can you do something
for me?”
“You’re making it hard, not telling me.”
“I know. It’s not fair. The only other man I trust
is Colonel Sweet. And his position wouldn’t let him make such
a promise.”
“It’s not illegal?”
“Not strictly speaking.”
“I guess.”
“Don’t guess, Case.”
“All right. You have my word.”
“Good. Thank you. It is appreciated, never doubt that.
Two things. First. If something happens to me, go to the room on
the second floor of my home. If I have left an oilskin packet on
the table there, see that it gets to a blacksmith named Sand, in
Oar.”
Case looked suitably dubious and baffled.
“Second, after you do that—and only after—tell the Colonel
the undead are stirring.”
Case stopped walking.
“Case.” There was a note of command in
Corbie’s voice the youth had not heard before.
“Yes. All right.”
“That’s it.”
“Corbie . . . ”
“No questions now. In a few weeks, maybe I can explain
everything. All right?”
“Okay.”
“Not a word now. And remember. Packet to Sand the
blacksmith. Then word to the Colonel. Tell you what. If I can,
I’ll leave the Colonel a letter, too.”
Case merely nodded.
Corbie took a deep breath. It had been twenty years since he had
attempted the simplest divining spell. Never had he tried anything
on the order of what he now faced. Back in those ancient times,
when he was another man, or boy, sorcery was a diversion for
wealthy youths who would rather play wizard than pursue legitimate
studies.
All was ready. The tools of the sorcerer appropriate to the task
lay on the table on the second floor of the house that Bomanz
built. It was fitting that he follow the old one.
He touched the oilskin packet left for Case, the opaque letter
to Sweet, and prayed neither would touch the young man’s
hands. But if what he suspected were true, it was better the enemy
knew than the world be surprised.
There was nothing left to do but do it. He gulped half a cup of
cold tea, took his seat. He closed his eyes, began a chant taught
him when he was younger than Case. His was not the method Bomanz
had used, but it was as effective.
His body would not relax, would not cease distracting him.
But at last the full lethargy closed in. His ka loosed its ten
thousand anchors to his flesh.
Part of him insisted he was a fool for attempting this without
the skills of a master. But he hadn’t the time for the
training a Bomanz required. He had learned what he could during his
absence from the Old Forest.
Free of the flesh, yet connected by invisible bonds that would
draw him back. If his luck held. He moved away carefully. He
conformed to the rule of bodies exactly. He used the stairway, the
doorway, and the sidewalks built by the Guard. Maintain the
pretense of flesh and the flesh would be harder to forget.
The world looked different. Each object had its unique aura. He
found it difficult to concentrate on the grand task.
He moved to the bounds of the Barrowland. He shuddered under the
impact of thrumming old spells that kept the Dominator and several
lesser minions bound. The power there! Carefully, he walked the
boundary till he found the way that Bomanz had opened, still not
fully healed.
He stepped over the line.
He drew the instant attention of every spirit, benign and
malign, chained within the Barrowland. There were far more than he
expected. Far more than the wizard’s map indicated. Those
soldier symbols that surrounded the Great
Barrow . . . They were not statues. They were
men, soldiers of the White Rose, who had been set as spirit guards
perpetually standing between the world and the monster that would
devour it. How driven must they have been. How dedicated to their
cause.
The path wound past the former resting places of old Taken,
outer circle, inner circle, twisting. Within the inner circle he
saw the true forms of several lesser monsters that had served the
Domination. The path stretched like a trail of pale silver mist.
Behind him that mist became more dense, his passage strengthening
the way.
Ahead, stronger spells. And all those men who had gone into the
earth to surround the Dominator. And beyond them, the greater fear.
The dragon thing that, on Bomanz’s map, lay coiled around the
crypt in the heart of the Great Barrow.
Spirits shrieked at him in TelleKurre, in UchiTelle, in
languages he did not know and tongues vaguely like some still
current. One and all, they cursed him. One and all, he ignored
them. There was a thing in a chamber beneath the greatest mound. He
had to see if it lay as restless as he suspected.
The dragon. Oh, by all the gods that never were, that dragon was
real. Real, alive, of flesh, yet it sensed and saw him. The silver
trail curved past its jaws, through the gap between teeth and tail.
It beat at him with a palpable will. But he would not be
stayed.
No more guardians. Just the crypt. And the monster man inside
was constrained. He had survived the
worst . . .
The old devil should be sleeping. Hadn’t the Lady defeated
him in his attempt to escape through Juniper? Hadn’t she put
him back down?
It was a tomb like many around the world. Perhaps a bit richer.
The White Rose had laid her opponents down in style. There were no
sarcophagi, though. There. That empty table was where the Lady
would have lain.
The other boasted a sleeping man. A big man, and handsome, but
with the mark of the beast upon him, even in repose. A face full of
hot hatred, of the anger of defeat.
Ah, then. His suspicions were groundless. The monster slept
indeed . . .
The Dominator sat up. And smiled. His smile was the most wicked
Corbie had ever seen. Then the undead extended a hand in welcome.
Corbie ran.
Mocking laughter pursued him.
Panic was an emotion entirely unfamiliar. Seldom had he
experienced it. He could not control it. He was only vaguely aware
of passing the dragon and the hate-filled spirits of White Rose
soldiers. He barely sensed the Dominator’s creatures beyond,
all howling in delight.
Even in his panic he clung to the misty trail. He made only one
misstep . . .
But that was sufficient.
The storm broke over the Barrowland. It was the most furious in
living memory. The lightning clashed with the ferocity of heavenly
armies, hammers and spears and swords of fire smiting earth and
sky. The downpour was incessant and impenetrable.
One mighty bolt struck the Barrowland. Earth and shrubbery flew
a hundred yards into the air. The earth staggered. The Eternal
Guard scrambled to arms terrified, sure the old evil had broken its
chains.
On the Barrowland two large shapes, one four-footed, one
bipedal, formed in the afterglow of the lightning strike. In a
moment both raced along a twisting path, leaving no mark upon water
or mud. They passed the bounds of the Barrowland, fled toward the
forest.
No one saw them. When the Guard reached the Barrowland, carrying
weapons and lanterns and fear like vast loads of lead, the storm
had waned. The lightning had ceased its boisterous brawl. The rain
had fallen off to normal.
Colonel Sweet and his men spent hours roaming the bounds of the
Barrowland. No one found a thing.
The Eternal Guard returned to its compound cursing the gods and
weather.
On the second floor of Corbie’s house Corbie’s body
continued to breathe one breath each five minutes. His heart barely
turned over. He would be a long time dying without his spirit.