The young man, now that he was off duty, returned to his campfire and retrieved a thick cloak from his bedroll. Hastily gulping down a bowl of rabbit stew, he then walked among the campfires.
Headed for the outskirts of the camp, he walked with purpose, ignoring many invitations to join friends around their fires. These he waved off genially and continued on his way. Few thought anything of this. A great many fled the lights of the fires at night. The shadows were warm with soft sighs and murmurs and sweet laughter.
Garic did have an appointment in the shadows, but it was not with a lover, though several young women in camp would have been more than happy to share the night with the handsome young nobleman. Coming to a large boulder, far from camp and far from other company, Garic wrapped his cloak about him, sat down, and waited.
He did not wait long.
“Garic?” said a hesitant voice.
“Michael!” Garic cried warmly, rising to his feet. The two men clasped hands and then, overcome, embraced each other warmly.
“I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw you ride into camp today, cousin!” Garic continued, gripping the other young man’s hand as though afraid to let him go, afraid he might disappear into the darkness.
“Nor I you,” said Michael, holding fast to his kinsmen and trying to rid his throat of a huskiness it seemed to have developed. Coughing, he sat down on the boulder and Garic joined him. Both remained silent for a few moments as they cleared their throats and pretended to be stern and soldierly.
“I thought it was a ghost,” Michael said with a hollow attempt at a laugh. “We heard you were dead... His voice died and he coughed again. “Confounded damp weather,” he muttered, “gets in a man’s windpipes.”
“I escaped,” Garic said quietly. “But my father, my mother, and my sister were not so lucky.”
“Anne?” Michael murmured, pain in his voice.
“She died quickly,” Garic said quietly, “as did my mother. My father saw to that, before the mob butchered him. It made them mad. They mutilated his body—”
Garic choked. Michael gripped his arm in sympathy. “A noble man, your father. He died as a true Knight, defending his home. A better death than some face,” he added grimly, causing Garic to look at him with a sharp, penetrating glance. “But, what is your story? How did you get away from the mob? Where have you been this last year?”
“I did not get away from them,” Garic said bitterly. “I arrived when it was all over. Where I had been did not matter’—the young man flushed—“but I should have been with them, to die with them!”
“No, your father would not have wanted that.” Michael shook his head. “You live. You will carry on the name.”
Garic frowned, his eyes glinted darkly. “Perhaps. Though I have not lain with a woman since—” He shook his head. “At any rate, I could only do for them what I could. I set fire to the castle—”
Michael gasped, but Garic continued, unhearing.
“—so that the mobs should not take it over. My family’s ashes remain there, among the blackened stones of the hall my great-great-grandfather built. Then I rode aimlessly, for a time, not much caring what happened to me. Finally, I met up with a group of other men, man y like myself—driven from their homes for various reasons.
“They asked no questions. They cared nothing about me except that I could wield a sword with skill. I joined them and we lived off our wits.”
“Bandits?” Michael asked, trying to keep a startled tone from his voice and failing, apparently, for Garic cast him a dark glance.
“Yes, bandits,” the young man answered coldly. “Does that shock you? That a Knight of Solamnia should so forget the Code and the Measure that he joins with bandits? I’ll ask you this, Michael—where were the Code and the Measure when they murdered my father, your uncle? Where are they anywhere in this wretched land?”
“Nowhere, perhaps,” Michael returned steadily, “except in our hearts.”
Garic was silent. Then he began to weep, harsh sobs that tore at his body. His cousin put his arms around him, holding him close. Garic gave a shuddering sigh, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.
“I have not cried once since I found them,” he said in a muffled voice. “And you are right, cousin. Living with robbers, I had sunk into a pit from which I might not have escaped, but for the general—”
“This Caramon?”
Garic nodded. “We ambushed him and his party one night. And that opened my eyes. Before, I had always robbed people without much thought or, sometimes, I even enjoyed it—telling myself it was dogs like these who had murdered my father. But in this party there was a woman and the magic-user. The wizard was ill. I hit him, and he crumpled at my touch like a broken doll. And the woman—I knew what they would do to her and the thought sickened me. But, I was afraid of the leader Steeltoe, they called him. He was a beast! Half-ogre.
“But the general challenged him. I saw true nobility that night—a man willing to give his life to protect those weaker than himself. And he won.” Garic grew calmer. As he talked, his eyes shone with admiration. “I saw, then, what my life had become. When Caramon asked if we would come with him, I agreed, as did most of the others. But it wouldn’t have mattered about them—I would have gone with him anywhere.”
“And now you’re part of his personal guard?” Michael said, smiling.
Garic nodded, flushing with pleasure. “I—I told him I was no better than the others—a bandit, a thief. But he just looked at me, as though he could see inside my soul, and smiled and said every man had to walk through a dark, starless night and, when he faced the morning, he’d be better for it.”
“Strange,” Michael said. “I wonder what he meant?”
“I think I understand,” Garic said. His glance went to the far edge of the camp where Caramon’s huge tent stood, smoke from the fires curling around the fluttering, silken flag that was a black streak against the stars. “Sometimes, I wonder if he isn’t walking through his own ‘dark night.’ I’ve seen a look on his face, sometimes—” Garic shook his head. “You know,” he said abruptly, “he and the wizard are twin brothers.”
Michael’s eyes opened wide. Garic confirmed it with a nod. “It is a strange relationship. There’s no love lost between them.”
“One of the Black Robes?” Michael said, snorting. “I should think not! I wonder the mage even travels with us. From what I have heard, these wizards can ride the night winds and summon forces from the graves to do their battles.”
“This one could do that, I’ve no doubt,” Garic replied, giving a smaller tent next to the general’s a dark glance. “Though I have seen him do his magic only once—back at the bandit camp—I know he is powerful. One look from his eyes, and my stomach shrivels inside of me, my blood turns to water. But, as I said, he was not well when we first met up with them. Night after night, when he still slept in his brother’s tent, I heard him cough until I did not think he could draw breath again.
How can a man live with such pain, I asked myself more than once.”
“But he seemed fine when I saw him today.”
“His health has improved greatly. He does nothing to tax it, however. Just spends all day in his tent, studying the spellbooks he carries with him in those great, huge chests. But he’s walking his ‘dark night,’ too,” Garic added. “A gloom hangs about him, and it’s been growing the farther south we travel. He is haunted by terrible dreams. I’ve heard him cry out in his sleep. Horrible cries—they’d wake the dead.”
Michael shuddered, there., sighing, looked over at Caramon’s tent. “I had grave misgivings about joining an army led, they say, by one of the Black Robes. And of all the wizards who have ever lived, this Fistandantilus is rumored to be the most powerful. I had not fully committed myself to join when I rode in today. I thought I would look things over, find out if it’s true they go south to help the oppressed people of Abanasinia in their fight against mountain dwarves.”