The Books of the South: Tales of the Black Company (Chronicles of the Black Company) (36 page)

Voice like a very slight breath of a breeze in spring willows, soft, gentle, and merry. “
Now
it’s time, Croaker.” Half a titter, half a chuckle. A glance up at the critter skewered on the lance. “And it’s time for you too, you old bastard.”

Completely different voice. Not just a different tone or a different inflexion, but an entirely different voice.

I guess all the other dead ones being alive set me up for it. I recognized her instantly. Almost as if something inside me had been expecting her. I gasped, “You! That can’t be!” I tried to get up. “Soulcatcher!” I don’t know what the hell I thought I was going to do. Run away? How? Where to?

The pain ripped through me. I sagged.

“Yes, my love. Me. You went away without finishing it.” Laughter that was a young girl’s giggle. “I have waited a long time, Croaker. But she finally exchanged the magic words with you. Now I avenge myself by taking from her what is more precious than life itself.” Again the giggle, like she was talking about some simple practical joke with no malice in it.

I had no strength to argue.

She made a lifting gesture with one gloved hand. “Come along, my sweet.”

I floated up off the ground. A crow landed on my chest and stared off in the direction I began to move, as though it were in charge of navigation.

There was a good side. The pain faded.

I did not see the lance and its burden move, but sensed that it too was in motion. My captor led the way, floating, too. We moved very fast.

We must have been a sight for anyone watching.

Darkness nibbled around the edge of consciousness. I fought it, fearing it was the final darkness. I lost.

43

Overlook

Mad laughter rolled out of that high crystal room on top of that tower at Overlook. Somebody was tickled silly about the way things were going up north.

“That’s three of them down, half a job done. And the hard half at that. Get the other three and it’s all mine.”

More insane mirth.

The Shadowmaster gazed out at the brilliant expanse of whiteness. “Is it time to release you from your prison, my beauties of the night? Time to let you run free in the world again? No, no. Not just this moment. Not till this island of safety is invulnerable.”

44

Glittering Stone

The plain is filled with the silence of stone. Nothing lives there. But in the deep hours of the night shadows flutter among the pillars and perch atop the columns with darkness wrapped about them like cloaks of concealment.

Such nights are not for the unwary stranger. Such nights the silence of stone is sometimes broken by screams. Then the shadows feast, though never do they sate the raging hunger.

For the shadows the hunt is ever poorer. Sometimes months pass before an unwise adventurer stumbles into the place of glittering stone. The hunger worsens with the years and the shadows eye the forbidden lands beyond. But they cannot go, and they cannot starve to death, much as they might wish to die. They cannot die, for they are the undead, bound by the silence of stone.

It is immortality of a sort.

Dreams of Steel

For Keith, because I like his style

1

Many months have passed. Much has happened and much has slipped from my memory. Insignificant details have stuck with me while important things have gotten away. Some things I know only from third parties and more I can only guess. How often have my witnesses perjured themselves?

It did not occur to me, till this time of enforced inactivity befell me, that an important tradition was being overlooked, that no one was recording the deeds of the Company. I dithered then. It seemed a presumption for me to take up the pen. I have no training. I am no historian nor even much of a writer. Certainly I don’t have Croaker’s eye or ear or wit.

So I shall confine myself to reporting facts as I recall them. I hope the tale is not too much colored by my own presence within it, nor by what it has done to me.

With that apologia, herewith, this addition to the Annals of the Black Company, in the tradition of Annalists before me, the Book of Lady.

—Lady, Annalist, Captain

2

The elevation was not good. The distance was extreme. But Willow Swan knew what he was seeing. “They’re getting their butts kicked.”

Armies contended before the city Dejagore, at the center of a circular, hill-encompassed plain. Swan and three companions watched.

Blade grunted agreement. Cordy Mather, Swan’s oldest friend, said nothing. He just tried to kick the stuffing out of a rock.

The army they favored was losing.

Swan and Mather were whites, blond and brunette, hailing from Roses, a city seven thousand miles north of the killing ground. Blade was a black giant of uncertain origins, a dangerous man with little to say. Swan and Mather had rescued him from crocodiles a few years earlier. He had stuck. The three were a team.

Swan cursed softly, steadily, as the battle situation worsened.

The fourth man did not belong. The team would not have had him if he volunteered. People called him Smoke. Officially, he was the fire marshall of Taglios, the city-nation whose army was losing. In reality he was the Taglian court wizard. He was a nut-brown little man whose very existence annoyed Swan.

“That’s your army out there, Smoke,” Willow growled. “It goes down, you go down. Bet the Shadowmasters would love to lay hands on you.” Sorceries yowled and barked on the battlefield. “Maybe make marmalade out of you. Unless you’ve cut a deal already.”

“Ease up, Willow,” Mather said. “He’s doing something.”

Swan looked at the butternut-colored runt. “Sure enough. But what?”

Smoke had his eyes closed. He mumbled and muttered. Sometimes his voice crackled and sizzled like bacon in an overheated pan.

“He ain’t doing nothing to help the Black Company. You quit talking to yourself, you old buzzard. We got a problem. Our guys are getting whipped. You want to try to turn that around? Before I turn you over my knee?”

The old man opened his eyes. He stared across the plain. His expression was not pleasant. Swan doubted that the little geek’s eyes were good enough to make out details. But you never knew with Smoke. With him everything was mask and pretense.

“Don’t be a moron, Swan. I’m one man, too little and too old. There are Shadowmasters down there. They can stomp me like a roach.”

Swan fussed and grumbled. People he knew were dying.

Smoke snapped, “All I can do—all any of us can do—is attract attention. Do you really want the Shadowmasters to notice you?”

“They’re just the Black Company, eh? They took their pay, they take their chances? Even if forty thousand Taglians go down with them?”

Smoke’s lips shrank into a mean little prune.

On the plain a human tide washed around a mound where the Black Company standard had been planted for a last stand. The tide swept on toward the hills.

“You wouldn’t be happy about the way things are going, would you?” Swan’s voice was dangerous, no longer carping. Smoke was a political animal, worse than a crocodile. Crocs might eat their young but their treacheries were predictable.

Though irked, Smoke replied in a voice almost tender. “They
have
accomplished more than we dreamed.”

The plain was dense with the dead and dying, man and beast. Mad war elephants careened around, respecting no allegiance. Only one Taglian legion had maintained its integrity. It had fought its way to a city gate and was covering the flight of other Taglians. Flames rose beyond the city from a military encampment. The Company had scored that much success against the apparent victors.

Smoke said, “They’ve lost a battle but they saved Taglios. They slew one of the Shadowmasters. They’ve made it impossible for the others to attack Taglios. Those will spend their remaining troops recapturing Dejagore.”

Swan sneered. “Just pardon me if I don’t dance for joy. I liked those guys. I didn’t like the way you planned to shaft them.”

Smoke’s temper was strained. “They weren’t fighting for Taglios, Swan. They wanted to use us to hammer through the Shadowlands to Khatovar. Which could be worse than a Shadowmasters’ conquest.”

Swan knew rationalization when he stepped in it. “And because they wouldn’t lick your boots, even if they were willing to save your asses from the Shadowmasters, you figure it’s handy, them getting caught here. A pity, say I. Would’ve been some swell show, watching your footwork if they’d come up winners and you had to deliver your end of the bargain.”

“Ease up, Willow,” Mather said.

Swan ignored him. “Call me a cynic, Smoke. But I’d bet about anything you and the Radisha had it scoped out to screw them from the start. Eh? Wouldn’t do to have them slice through the Shadowlands. But why the hell not? I never did get that part.”

“It ain’t over yet, Swan,” Blade said. “Wait. Smoke going to get his turn to cry.”

The others gawked at Blade. He spoke so seldom that when he did they knew it meant something. What did he know?

Swan asked, “You see something I missed?”

Cordy snapped, “Damn it, will you calm down?”

“Why the hell should I? The whole damned world is swamped by conniving old farts like Smoke. They been screwing the rest of us since the gods started keeping time. Look at this little poof. Keeps whining about how he’s got to lay low and not let the Shadowmasters find out about him.
I
think that means he’s got no balls. That Lady … You know who
she
used to be?
She
had balls enough to face them. You give that half a think you’ll realize how she laid more on the line than this old freak ever could.”

“Calm down, Willow.”

“Calm down, hell. It ain’t right. Somebody’s got to tell old farts like this to go suck rocks.”

Blade grunted agreement. But Blade didn’t like anyone in authority.

Swan, not as upset as he put on, noted that Blade was in position to whack the wizard if he got obnoxious.

Smoke smiled. “Swan, once upon a time all us old farts were young loudmouths like you.”

Mather stepped between them. “Enough! Instead of squabbling, how about we get out of here before that mess catches up with us?” Remnants of the battle swirled around the toes of the foothills. “We can gather the garrisons from the towns north of here and collect everybody at Ghoja.”

Swan agreed. Sourly. “Yeah. Maybe some of the Company made it.” He glowered at Smoke.

The old man shrugged. “If some get out they can train a real army. They’d have time enough now.”

“Yeah. And if the Prahbrindrah Drah and the Radisha was to get off their butts they might even line up a few real allies. Maybe come up with a wizard with a hair on his ass. One who wouldn’t spend his whole life hiding out in the weeds.”

Mather started down the back of the hill. “Come on, Blade. Let them bicker.”

After several seconds Smoke confessed, “He’s right, Swan. Let’s get on with it.”

Willow tossed his long golden hair, looked at Blade. Blade jerked his head toward the horses below the hill. “All right.” Swan took a last look at the city and plain where the Black Company had died. “But what’s right is right and what’s wrong is wrong.”

“And what’s practical is practical and what’s needful is necessary. Let’s go.”

Swan walked. He would remember that remark. He was determined to have the last word. “Bullshit, Smoke. That’s bullshit. I seen a new side of you today. I don’t like it and I don’t trust it. I’m going to watch you like your conscience.”

They mounted up and headed north.

3

In those days the Company was in service to the Prahbrindrah Drah of Taglios. That prince was too easygoing to master a numerous, factious people like the Taglians. But his natural optimism and forgiving nature were offset by his sister, the Radisha Drah. A small, dark, hard woman, the Radisha had a will of sword steel and the conscience of a hurtling stone.

While the Black Company and the Shadowmasters contested possession of Dejagore, or Stormgard, the Prahbrindrah Drah held an audience three hundred miles to the north.

The prince stood five and a half feet tall. Though dark, his features were caucasic. He glowered at the priests and engineers before him. He wanted to throw them out. But in god-ridden Taglios no one offended the priesthoods.

He spied his sister signalling from the shadowed rear of the chamber. “Excuse me.” He walked out. Bad manners they would tolerate. He joined the Radisha. “What is it?”

“Not here.”

“Bad news?”

“Not now.” The Radisha strode off. “Majarindi looked unhappy.”

“He got his hand caught in a monkey trap. He insisted we build a wall because Shaza has been having holy visions. But once the others demanded a share he sang a different song. I asked if Shaza had begun having un-visions. He wasn’t amused.”

“Good.”

The Radisha led her brother through tortuous passages. The palace was ancient. Additions were cobbled on during every reign. No one knew the labyrinth whole except Smoke.

The Radisha went to one of the wizard’s secret places, a room sheltered from eavesdroppers by the old man’s finest spells. The Prahbrindrah Drah shut the door. “Well?”

“A pigeon brought a message. From Smoke.”

“Bad news?”

“Our mercenaries have been defeated at Stormgard.” The Shadowmasters called Dejagore Stormgard.

“Badly?”

“Is there any other…?”

“Yes.” Before the appearance of the Shadowmasters Taglios had been a pacifist state. But when that danger first beckoned the Prahbrindrah had exhumed the ancient strategikons. “Were they annihilated? Routed? How badly did they hurt the Shadowmasters? Is Taglios in danger?”

“They shouldn’t have crossed the Main.”

“They had to harry the survivors from Ghoja ford. They’re the professionals, Sis. We said we wouldn’t second-guess or interfere. We didn’t believe they could win at Ghoja, so we’re way ahead. Give me details.”

“A pigeon isn’t a condor.” The Radisha made a face. “They marched down with a mob of liberated slaves, took Dejagore by stealth, destroyed Stormshadow and wounded Shadowspinner. But today Moonshadow appeared with a fresh army. Casualties were heavy on both sides. Moonshadow may have been killed. But we lost. Some of the troops retreated into the city. The rest scattered. Most of the mercenaries, including the captain and his woman, were killed.”