Corbie came and went at will around the Guard compound. The
walls inside the headquarters building boasted several dozen old
paintings of the Barrowland. He studied those often while he
cleaned, shivering. His reaction was not unique. The
Dominator’s attempt to escape through Juniper had rocked the
Lady’s empire. Stories of his cruelties had fed upon
themselves and grown fat in the centuries since the White Rose laid
him down.
The Barrowland remained quiet. Those who watched saw nothing
untoward. Morale rose. The old evil had shot its bolt.
But it waited.
It would wait throughout eternity if need be. It could not die.
Its apparent last hope was no hope. The Lady was immortal, too. She
would allow nothing to open her husband’s grave.
The paintings recorded progressive decay. The latest dated from
shortly after the Lady’s resurrection. Even then the
Barrowland had been much more whole.
Sometimes Corbie went to the edge of town, stared at the Great
Barrow, shook his head.
Once there had been amulets which permitted Guards safely within
the spells making the Barrowland lethal, to allow for upkeep. But
those had disappeared. The Guard could but watch and wait now.
Time ambled. Slow and grey and limping, Corbie became a town
fixture. He spoke seldom, but occasionally enlivened the lie
sessions at Blue Willy with a wooly anecdote from the Forsberg
campaigns. The fire blazed in his eyes then. No one doubted he had
been there, even if he saw those days a little walleyed.
He made no true friends. Rumor said he did share the occasional
private chess game with the Monitor, Colonel Sweet, for whom he had
done some special small services. And of course, there was the
recruit Case, who devoured his tales and accompanied him on his
hobbling walks. Rumor said Corbie could read. Case hoped to
learn.
No one ever visited the second floor of Corbie’s home.
There, in the heart of the night, he slowly unravelled the
treacherous mare’s nest of a tale that time and dishonesty
had distorted out of any parallel with truth.
Only parts were encrypted. Most was hastily scribbled in
TelleKurre, the principal language of the Domination era. But
scattered passages were in UchiTelle, a TelleKurre regional
vulgate. Times were, when battling those passages, Corbie smiled
grimly. He might be the only man alive able to puzzle through those
sometimes fragmentary sentences. “Benefit of a classical
education,” he would murmur with a certain sarcasm. Then he
would become reflective, introspective. He would take one of his
late night walks to shake revenant memory. One’s own
yesterday is a ghost that will not be laid. Death is the only
exorcism.
He saw himself as a craftsman, did Corbie. A smith. An armorer
cautiously forging a lethal sword. Like his predecessor in that
house, he had dedicated his life to the search for a fragment of
knowledge.
The winter was astonishing. The first snows came early, after an
early and unusually damp autumn. It snowed often and heavily.
Spring came late.
In the forests north of the Barrowland, where only scattered
clans dwelt, life was harsh. Tribesmen appeared bearing furs to
trade for food. Factors for the furriers of Oar were ecstatic.
Old folks called the winter a harbinger of worse to come. But
old folks always see today’s weather as more harsh than that
of yore. Or milder. Never, never the same.
Spring sprung. A swift thaw set the creeks and rivers raging.
The Great Tragic, which looped within three miles of the
Barrowland, spread miles beyond its banks. It abducted tens and
hundreds of thousands of trees. The flood was so spectacular that
scores from town wandered out to watch it from a hilltop.
For most, the novelty faded. But Corbie limped out any day Case
could accompany him. Case was yet possessed of dreams. Corbie
indulged him.
“Why so interested in the river, Corbie?”
“I don’t know. Maybe because of its grand
statement.”
“What?”
Corbie swung an encompassing hand. “The vastness. The
ongoing rage. See how significant we are?” Brown water gnawed
at the hill, furious, fumbling forests of driftwood. Less turbulent
arms hugged the hill, probed the woods behind.
Case nodded. “Like the feeling I get when I look at the
stars.”
“Yes. Yes. But this is more personal. Closer to home. Not
so?”
“I guess.” Case sounded baffled. Corbie smiled.
Legacy of a farm youth.
“Let’s go back. It’s peaked. But I don’t
trust it with those clouds rolling in.”
Rain did threaten. Were the river to rise much more, the hill
would become an island.
Case helped Corbie cross the boggy parts and up to the crest of
the low rise which kept the flood from reaching cleared land. Much
of that was a lake now, shallow enough to be waded if some fool
dared. Under grey skies the Great Barrow stood out poorly,
reflecting off the water as a dark lump. Corbie shuddered.
“Case. He’s still there.”
The youth leaned on his spear, interested only because Corbie
was interested. He wanted to get out of the drizzle.
“The Dominator, lad. Whatever else did not escape.
Waiting. Filling with ever more hatred for the living.”
Case looked at Corbie. The older man was taut with tension. He
seemed frightened.
“If he gets loose, pity the world.”
“But didn’t the Lady finish him in
Juniper?”
“She stopped him. She didn’t destroy him. That may
not be possible . . . ”
“Well, it must be. He has
to be vulnerable somehow. But if the White Rose couldn’t harm
him . . . ”
“The Rose wasn’t so strong, Corbie. She
couldn’t even hurt the Taken. Or even their minions. All she
could do was bind and bury them. It took the Lady and the
Rebel . . . ”
“The Rebel? I doubt that. She did it.” Corbie lunged
forward, forcing his leg. He marched along the edge of the lake.
His gaze remained fixed on the Great Barrow.
Case feared Corbie was obsessed with the Barrowland. As a Guard,
he had to be concerned. Though the Lady had exterminated the
Resurrectionists in his grandfather’s time, still that mound
exerted its dark attraction. Monitor Sweet remained frightened
someone would revive that idiocy. He wanted to caution Corbie,
could think of no polite way to phrase himself.
Wind stirred the lake. Ripples ran from the Barrow toward them.
Both shivered. “Wish this weather would break,” Corbie
muttered. “Time for tea?”
“Yes.”
The weather continued chill and wet. Summer came late. Autumn
arrived early. When the Great Tragic did at last recede, it left a
mud plain strewn with the wrecks of grand trees. Its channel had
shifted a half mile westward.
The woodland tribes continued selling furs.
Serendipity. Corbie was near done renovating. He was restoring a
closet. In removing a wooden clothes rod he fumbled. The rod
separated into parts when it hit the floor.
He knelt. He stared. His heart hammered. A slim spindle of white
silk lay exposed . . . Gently, gently, he put
the rod back together, carried it upstairs.
Carefully, carefully, he removed the silk, unrolled it. His
stomach knotted.
It was Bomanz’s chart of the Barrowland, complete with
notes about which Taken lay where, where fetishes were located and
why, the puissance of protective spells, and a scatter of known
resting places of minions of the Taken who had gone into the ground
with their captains. A cluttered chart indeed. Mostly annotated in
TelleKurre.
Also noted were burial sites outside the Barrowland proper. Most
of the ordinary fallen had gone into mass graves.
The battle fired Corbie’s imagination. For a moment he saw
the Dominator’s forces standing firm, dying to the last man.
He saw wave after wave of the White Rose horde give themselves up
to contain the shadow within the trap. Overhead, the Great Comet
seared the sky, a vast flaming scimitar.
He could only imagine, though. There were no reliable
histories.
He commiserated with Bomanz. Poor foolish little man, dreaming,
seeking the truth. He had not earned his dark legend.
Corbie remained fixed over the chart all night, letting it seep
into bone and soul. It did little to help him translate, but it did
illuminate the Barrowland some. And even more, it illuminated a
wizard so dedicated he had spent his entire adult life studying the
Barrowland.
Dawn’s light stirred Corbie. For a moment he doubted
himself. Could he become prey to the same fatal passion?
Corbie came and went at will around the Guard compound. The
walls inside the headquarters building boasted several dozen old
paintings of the Barrowland. He studied those often while he
cleaned, shivering. His reaction was not unique. The
Dominator’s attempt to escape through Juniper had rocked the
Lady’s empire. Stories of his cruelties had fed upon
themselves and grown fat in the centuries since the White Rose laid
him down.
The Barrowland remained quiet. Those who watched saw nothing
untoward. Morale rose. The old evil had shot its bolt.
But it waited.
It would wait throughout eternity if need be. It could not die.
Its apparent last hope was no hope. The Lady was immortal, too. She
would allow nothing to open her husband’s grave.
The paintings recorded progressive decay. The latest dated from
shortly after the Lady’s resurrection. Even then the
Barrowland had been much more whole.
Sometimes Corbie went to the edge of town, stared at the Great
Barrow, shook his head.
Once there had been amulets which permitted Guards safely within
the spells making the Barrowland lethal, to allow for upkeep. But
those had disappeared. The Guard could but watch and wait now.
Time ambled. Slow and grey and limping, Corbie became a town
fixture. He spoke seldom, but occasionally enlivened the lie
sessions at Blue Willy with a wooly anecdote from the Forsberg
campaigns. The fire blazed in his eyes then. No one doubted he had
been there, even if he saw those days a little walleyed.
He made no true friends. Rumor said he did share the occasional
private chess game with the Monitor, Colonel Sweet, for whom he had
done some special small services. And of course, there was the
recruit Case, who devoured his tales and accompanied him on his
hobbling walks. Rumor said Corbie could read. Case hoped to
learn.
No one ever visited the second floor of Corbie’s home.
There, in the heart of the night, he slowly unravelled the
treacherous mare’s nest of a tale that time and dishonesty
had distorted out of any parallel with truth.
Only parts were encrypted. Most was hastily scribbled in
TelleKurre, the principal language of the Domination era. But
scattered passages were in UchiTelle, a TelleKurre regional
vulgate. Times were, when battling those passages, Corbie smiled
grimly. He might be the only man alive able to puzzle through those
sometimes fragmentary sentences. “Benefit of a classical
education,” he would murmur with a certain sarcasm. Then he
would become reflective, introspective. He would take one of his
late night walks to shake revenant memory. One’s own
yesterday is a ghost that will not be laid. Death is the only
exorcism.
He saw himself as a craftsman, did Corbie. A smith. An armorer
cautiously forging a lethal sword. Like his predecessor in that
house, he had dedicated his life to the search for a fragment of
knowledge.
The winter was astonishing. The first snows came early, after an
early and unusually damp autumn. It snowed often and heavily.
Spring came late.
In the forests north of the Barrowland, where only scattered
clans dwelt, life was harsh. Tribesmen appeared bearing furs to
trade for food. Factors for the furriers of Oar were ecstatic.
Old folks called the winter a harbinger of worse to come. But
old folks always see today’s weather as more harsh than that
of yore. Or milder. Never, never the same.
Spring sprung. A swift thaw set the creeks and rivers raging.
The Great Tragic, which looped within three miles of the
Barrowland, spread miles beyond its banks. It abducted tens and
hundreds of thousands of trees. The flood was so spectacular that
scores from town wandered out to watch it from a hilltop.
For most, the novelty faded. But Corbie limped out any day Case
could accompany him. Case was yet possessed of dreams. Corbie
indulged him.
“Why so interested in the river, Corbie?”
“I don’t know. Maybe because of its grand
statement.”
“What?”
Corbie swung an encompassing hand. “The vastness. The
ongoing rage. See how significant we are?” Brown water gnawed
at the hill, furious, fumbling forests of driftwood. Less turbulent
arms hugged the hill, probed the woods behind.
Case nodded. “Like the feeling I get when I look at the
stars.”
“Yes. Yes. But this is more personal. Closer to home. Not
so?”
“I guess.” Case sounded baffled. Corbie smiled.
Legacy of a farm youth.
“Let’s go back. It’s peaked. But I don’t
trust it with those clouds rolling in.”
Rain did threaten. Were the river to rise much more, the hill
would become an island.
Case helped Corbie cross the boggy parts and up to the crest of
the low rise which kept the flood from reaching cleared land. Much
of that was a lake now, shallow enough to be waded if some fool
dared. Under grey skies the Great Barrow stood out poorly,
reflecting off the water as a dark lump. Corbie shuddered.
“Case. He’s still there.”
The youth leaned on his spear, interested only because Corbie
was interested. He wanted to get out of the drizzle.
“The Dominator, lad. Whatever else did not escape.
Waiting. Filling with ever more hatred for the living.”
Case looked at Corbie. The older man was taut with tension. He
seemed frightened.
“If he gets loose, pity the world.”
“But didn’t the Lady finish him in
Juniper?”
“She stopped him. She didn’t destroy him. That may
not be possible . . . ”
“Well, it must be. He has
to be vulnerable somehow. But if the White Rose couldn’t harm
him . . . ”
“The Rose wasn’t so strong, Corbie. She
couldn’t even hurt the Taken. Or even their minions. All she
could do was bind and bury them. It took the Lady and the
Rebel . . . ”
“The Rebel? I doubt that. She did it.” Corbie lunged
forward, forcing his leg. He marched along the edge of the lake.
His gaze remained fixed on the Great Barrow.
Case feared Corbie was obsessed with the Barrowland. As a Guard,
he had to be concerned. Though the Lady had exterminated the
Resurrectionists in his grandfather’s time, still that mound
exerted its dark attraction. Monitor Sweet remained frightened
someone would revive that idiocy. He wanted to caution Corbie,
could think of no polite way to phrase himself.
Wind stirred the lake. Ripples ran from the Barrow toward them.
Both shivered. “Wish this weather would break,” Corbie
muttered. “Time for tea?”
“Yes.”
The weather continued chill and wet. Summer came late. Autumn
arrived early. When the Great Tragic did at last recede, it left a
mud plain strewn with the wrecks of grand trees. Its channel had
shifted a half mile westward.
The woodland tribes continued selling furs.
Serendipity. Corbie was near done renovating. He was restoring a
closet. In removing a wooden clothes rod he fumbled. The rod
separated into parts when it hit the floor.
He knelt. He stared. His heart hammered. A slim spindle of white
silk lay exposed . . . Gently, gently, he put
the rod back together, carried it upstairs.
Carefully, carefully, he removed the silk, unrolled it. His
stomach knotted.
It was Bomanz’s chart of the Barrowland, complete with
notes about which Taken lay where, where fetishes were located and
why, the puissance of protective spells, and a scatter of known
resting places of minions of the Taken who had gone into the ground
with their captains. A cluttered chart indeed. Mostly annotated in
TelleKurre.
Also noted were burial sites outside the Barrowland proper. Most
of the ordinary fallen had gone into mass graves.
The battle fired Corbie’s imagination. For a moment he saw
the Dominator’s forces standing firm, dying to the last man.
He saw wave after wave of the White Rose horde give themselves up
to contain the shadow within the trap. Overhead, the Great Comet
seared the sky, a vast flaming scimitar.
He could only imagine, though. There were no reliable
histories.
He commiserated with Bomanz. Poor foolish little man, dreaming,
seeking the truth. He had not earned his dark legend.
Corbie remained fixed over the chart all night, letting it seep
into bone and soul. It did little to help him translate, but it did
illuminate the Barrowland some. And even more, it illuminated a
wizard so dedicated he had spent his entire adult life studying the
Barrowland.
Dawn’s light stirred Corbie. For a moment he doubted
himself. Could he become prey to the same fatal passion?