Fitz swung down from the outlying branch of a lemon tree, onto his saddle, without spilling any of the fruit piled high in his upturned hat.
“We will ride on in a moment. But when we can, I shall make a lemon salve and a soothing drink.”
Hereward nodded, finding himself unable to speak. Despite Fitz’s repairing sorceries, the wound in his side was still very painful, and he was weak from loss of blood, but neither thing choked his voice. He was made quiet by a cold melancholy that held him tight, coupled with a feeling of terrible loss, the loss of some future, never-to-be happiness that had gone forever.
“I suppose we must head for Fort Yarz,” mused Fitz. “It is the closest likely place for employment. There is always some trouble there, though I believe the Gebrak tribes have been largely quiet this past year.”
Hereward tried to speak again, and at last found a croak that had some resemblance to a voice.
“No. I am tired of war. Find us somewhere peaceful, where I can rest.”
Fitz hopped across to perch on the neck of Hereward’s mount and faced the knight, his blue eyes brighter than the moonlight.
“I will try, Hereward. But as you ruminated earlier, the world is as it is, and we are what we were made to be. Even should we find somewhere that seems at peace, I suspect it will not stay so, should we remain. Remember Jeminero.”
“Aye.” Hereward sighed. He straightened up just a little and took up the chains, as Fitz jumped to his own saddle. “I remember.”
“Fort Yarz?” asked Fitz.
Hereward nodded, and slapped the chain, urging his battlemount forward. As it stretched into its stride, the lemons began to fall from the trees in the orchard, playing the soft drumbeat of a funerary march, the first sign of the passing from the world of the god of Shûme.
Illustrated by Jessica Douglas