Around the horizon, like the pillars of the sky, smoke rose from countless fires.
"They're burning Gudermuth to the ground!" Gathrid cried.
"Quiet!"
Then Gathrid, too, heard the faint sound of approaching hooves. A Ventimiglian patrol passed nearby and continued on toward a small encampment near the smouldering ruins of a village. A
picket of crucifixes surrounded camp and town. The easterners had shown no mercy.
After a long look, Rogala asked, "It's always like this?"
"I guess. The stories out of Grevening were grisly."
The dwarf had seen grim doings during the Brothers' War, yet the savagery of the Ventimiglians seemed to shake him. "But why? Why slaughter a beaten people? Especially harmless peasants?"
"The Mindak swore he would destroy or enslave everyone. The only buy-off was to surrender the Sword. We didn't believe it existed."
Rogala's face twisted into the cruelest expression Gathrid had ever seen. It smoothed out in an instant. "He'll get it. Between the ribs. But that'll wait. Where are we?"
"I don't know."
"It's your country, isn't it?"
"I never traveled much."
"What's forty miles southwest of the place where we met?"
"The grain-growing counties. Small towns, small castles. We didn't do anything big, though. Katich is the only real city in Gudermuth."
"Don't apologize. There's a lot to be said for the rural life. The city. What direction is it?"
"West. Thirty or forty miles more, I guess. I don't know for sure. I'm sorry."
"Another apology. The Swordbearer doesn't apologize. Men apologize to him. Remember that. Be arrogant. It's expected. So. Make it forty miles just to be sure. I've had enough walking. We'll steal horses. Can you ride?"
Gathrid scowled. The dwarf seemed to think him a total incompetent. "Yes. But Katich would be under siege. It may have fallen."
"Not to worry. Best place to hide from an enemy is in his shadow. Gives you the chance to watch over his shoulder. And stab him in the back if the mood hits you. Don't give me that look. You want to stay alive, Sword or no, you'd better learn this lesson, You get your enemies any way you can. Fight fair, play the brave chevalier, and you're going to get your guts spilled."
Darkness settled in fast. Soon the Ventimiglian encampment was distinguishable only by its campfires, gleaming like bright little stars... . Gathrid glanced eastward. Yes. "Theis, look at that." He pointed.
"What?"
"The comet."
The dwarf cursed and muttered and groaned. "That again. It's going to be another rough one."
"Was there a comet before the Brothers' War?"
To his surprise, Rogala answered him. "Yeah. The same one. The same damned one. It's going to be rugged, boy. 'Bout time to visit our friends over there."
"I don't think I'm up to horse-stealing right now, Theis. I haven't got the strength. All my body wants to do is sleep." As he said it, his underbrain whimpered, cringing away from the inevitable nightmares.
"You've only been up ... Oh, all right. We have to wait till they're settled for the night anyway."
Gathrid collapsed. The last thing he saw was Rogala sitting on his heels, a toadlike silhouette against the glow of distant fires. A flareup in the smouldering village set illusive fireflies playing through his tangled beard. He seemed more interested in the comet than in the camp.
Did the dwarf never tire? Gathrid had not seen him sleep since the wakening of the Great Sword. He drifted off wondering if Rogala suffered any of the weaknesses of mere mortals.
The nightmare returned, this time while Gathrid was in that stage of semiawareness preceding wakening. It was a time when he was accustomed to manipulating his dreams. Since earliest childhood he had a facility for backtracking, revising and redirecting.
The nightmare would not respond. The dark pursuer remained, closing in, reaching out. ... A
haunting, seductive, yet somehow pathetic and hungry longing kept touching Gathrid's mind.
There was a familiar flavor to it. ... He recognized it. It was the thing that had possessed the Dead Captain. It still lived. And it was determined to have him as its new host.
"Theis!" He jerked upright, grabbing for the dwarf.
Rogala had disappeared. Gathrid jumped up. He began blundering through the brush.
Rogala ghosted out of the darkness. "Be quiet!" he hissed. "And get down."
"It's after me!" Gathrid babbled. "It's getting closer. It almost got me this time." He was getting loud, but could not stop himself.
Rogala ended his hysteria with a slap. Startled, Gathrid plopped down and rubbed his cheek. There had been a remarkable strength behind the blow.
"Now explain. Quietly."
Gathrid did so, softly but urgently.
"You should've told me before."
"You could've stopped it?"
"No. But I would've had time to think before it got dangerous. I'll worry about it after we finish tonight's work."
"Eh?"
"Our horses. I've been scouting. There're twenty-three men down there. None with Power. All secondline soldiers led by a lazy sergeant. There were three sentries. I've cared for them already."
"Then we'll have no trouble stealing horses and ..."
"The horses come afterward."
"But. ..."
"Daubendiek is weak. It's starving after meeting that thing. It has to be fed."
"Theis, no. I couldn't."
"What?"
"Kill men while they're sleeping."
"Best time. They don't fight back. You remember who they are? They could be the men who tortured your mother. Aren't you hungry? They have more than horses. Boy your age usually eats a ton of fodder a day."
Gathrid needed no reminder. His navel was grinding against his backbone. But to kill men over something to eat. ... He was not that hungry. Not yet.
The horror of the Ventimiglian invasion had not purged youth's pacifism and idealism. He still saw the world through the lens of should-be. That distorting lens was chipped now. It had a big crack across its middle. It would shatter before long.
"Ideals are a handicap," Rogala insisted. "If you're not flexible about them."
"But... ."
"You're going to get your head lopped off, boy. You fight fire with fire in this world. You don't see these Ven-timiglians counting scruples, do you?"
"If we sink to their level, we're no better than they are."
"What gives you the idea you are? Human is human, boy. There are two kinds of people. Wolves and sheep. Is the sheep better than the wolf because he bravely lets himself be gobbled? Hardly. These Ventimiglians are pragmatists. I don't yet see their logic, admitted. I don't know their goals.
They do have the determination to achieve them." He launched a rambling discourse about great pragmatists he had known.
Gathrid shut him out. He could not stomach the dwarf's primitive philosophizing.
As he talked, Rogala edged nearer the enemy camp. He spoke in an ever softer voice.
Gathrid felt the presence of his haunt. He crowded Rogala.
The cynical old dwarf knew how to motivate him. He talked about Anyeck. Gathrid immediately conjured visions of his sister suffering. The dwarf kept poking that sore spot. Though shortspoken, he could wax colorful when he wanted.
The boy's anger kindled. Rogala fanned, it. Hatred conceived in the ruins of Kacalief fed it.
Even so, Gathrid tried to go directly to the horse picket.
Fate intervened.
A sleepy Ventimiglian, leaving his tent on some nocturnal mission, stumbled into the youth. The sleepiness left him. His eyes grew improbably wide. His mouth opened... .
Gathrid seized the Sword's hilt and flung the blade around.