Bleak Seasons (4 page)

Mogaba holds staff conferences in the citadel. There is a war room there, once
the toy of the sorceress Stormshadow. Mogaba considers meeting there a great
concession to the distances us underlings must hike. He does not like leaving
his own part of the action. For that reason I could count on this being short.

He was polite enough, though it was a strained courtesy obvious to all. He said,

“I received your message. It was not entirely clear.”

“I garbled it intentionally. I didn’t want the messenger telling everybody on
his way to see you.”

“It is not good news, then, I assume.” He spoke the Jewel Cities dialect the
Company picked up when it was in service to the Syndic of Beryl. Most of us used
it only when we did not want the natives to understand what we were saying.

Mogaba used it because he did not yet have enough Taglian to get by without
interpreters. Even his Jewel Cities dialect was badly accented.

“Definitely not good news,” I said. Mogaba’s friend Sindawe translated for the
Taglian officers present. I continued, “Goblin and One-Eye tell me Shadowspinner
is completely healthy again and means tonight to be his big comeback show. So
tonight won’t be just another raid, it will be a big punchout for the whole
works.”

A dozen pairs of eyes stared, praying I was making the sort of bad joke Goblin
and One-Eye would find hilarious. Mogaba’s own eyes were icy. He wanted to make
me recant by sheer weight of his gaze.

Mogaba has no use for One-Eye or Goblin. They are one of the big sources of
contention between him and the Old Crew. He is sure that real wizards, however
puny, have no place among real warriors, who are supposed to rely on their
strength, their wit, their will, and even maybe their superior steel if they
have it.

Goblin and One-Eye, besides being wizards, besides being sloppy and
undisciplined and rowdy, worst of all fail to agree that Mogaba is the best
thing that could have happened to the Black Company.

Mogaba hates Shadowspinner in part because he knows the Shadowmaster will never
meet him in a trial by combat that can be sung about down through the ages.

Mogaba wants his place in the Annals. He lusts after a major place in the
Annals. And he is going to get that, but not the way he wants.

“Do you have a suggestion about how to deal with this threat?” Mogaba showed no
emotion, though Shadowspinner getting well meant the date of our executions had
been advanced.

I considered suggesting prayer but it was obvious Mogaba was not in the mood.

“Afraid not.”

“There is nothing in your books?”

He meant the Annals. Croaker tried hard to get him to study them. Croaker was
big on looking for, and deferring to, precedent mainly because he lacked much
confidence in his mastery of strategy and leadership. On the other hand, Mogaba
lacked no confidence whatsoever. He always had an excuse not to study Company
history. Only recently had it occurred to me that he might not read or write.

Those are skills considered unmanly in some places. Maybe that was true among
the Nar of Gea-Xle, despite the fact that keeping the Annals was a holy duty of
our Black Company forebrethren.

The Nar say very little about their beliefs. The rest of us are aware that they
consider us heretics, though.

“Very little. The time-honored tactic is to attract the wizard’s attention to a
secondary target where he will do less damage than he wants. You hold his
attention there till he gets tired or until you sneak up and cut his throat.

Sneakups aren’t practical here. This time Spinner will protect himself better.

He might not even come out of his camp if we don’t make him.”

Mogaba nodded, unsurprised. “Sindawe?”

Sindawe is Mogaba’s oldest and closest friend. They go back to early childhood.

Sindawe is now Mogaba’s second in command and leader of the Taglian First
Legion, which is the best of the Taglian formations. And the oldest. Croaker put
Mogaba in charge of training when first we arrived in Taglios and the First is
the juggernaut Mogaba built.

Sindawe can pass as Mogaba’s brother. Sometimes he acts like Mogaba’s
conscience. Mogaba values his good opinion possibly more than he should.

Sindawe said, “We could try to outrun them . . . Whoa, Ga! I’m joking.”

Mogaba didn’t get it. Or if he did he failed to see the humor.

I offered, “Use artillery to distract him, wherever he is. And if we do catch
him in range we can hope we get lucky.”

We did that during the big battle that ended with us trapped. And it worked. We
even got lucky, some, which was why we were alive to be in deep shit now. But we
did not come near eliminating Shadowspinner.

“We will include motion in everything,” Mogaba decided. “Our artillerymen will
shoot and run. Wherever the Shadowmaster attacks directly we will fade away
instantly. We will cover with enfilading fire till his attention is drawn
elsewhere. We will not look him in the eye.”

Mogaba looked me in the eye. He wanted help from Goblin and One-Eye but his
pride would not let him ask. He is on record as saying he cannot abide sorcery,

that sorcery has no place in the Black Company. It is wicked, dishonorable, the
alternative of rogues. The man just cannot lay off the flattery. He spreads that
stuff all over those two clowns every time he sees them, too. He has made them
some big offers intended to get them to retire from “his” Company.

Help? Ain’t it funny how flexible you get when absolute destruction looks you
right in the eye?

Sort of flexible. Mogaba never addressed the matter directly.

I did not twist his tail. I never do. And I hope that drives him crazy. I said,

“We will all exercise all our talents to their limit. If we don’t get through
this, our differences don’t mean shit.”

Mogaba winced. Among the many things a Nar warrior does not do is employ
colorful language. Whatever language he uses.

Good thing we were using the Beryl dialect. Our discussion had gone on long
enough that the Taglian officers were beginning to doubt Sindawe’s bland
translations. We tried to show the outside world a single face. It was
especially important to deceive our employers. In the tradition of these things
they are, likely, already figuring out how to screw us as soon as we save their
royal butts.

Counting sworn brothers taken in since our advent in this forsaken end of the
world, the Nar and Old Crew factions together total sixty-nine men. Dejagore’s
main defenders are ten thousand inadequately trained Taglian legionaires, some
willing but ineffective former Shadowlander slaves, and some even less effective
Jaicuri. Each day snaps our numbers. Old wounds and current diseases thin our
ranks as swiftly as enemy attacks. Croaker tried to teach good field hygiene but
it has not stuck anywhere outside the Company proper.

Mogaba awarded me a small bow, the way honors are paid in these parts. He would
not thank me outright.

Sindawe and Ochiba now had their heads together over some unit reports that had
just come in. Sindawe announced, “No time left for talk. They are about to
attack.” He spoke Taglian. Unlike Mogaba, he made a grand effort to get beyond
pidgin. He strove to understand the culture and thinking of the several Taglian
peoples weird though they are.

Mogaba said, “Then let’s go to our posts. We don’t want to disappoint
Shadowspinner.” You could see the edge on the man. He was eager. His excitement
was almost unreasonable. He reviewed the tactics he wanted used to reduce
friendly casualties.

I left without a word. Without being dismissed.

Mogaba knew I did not consider him Captain. We discuss it occasionally. I will
not acknowledge him without a formal vote. He does not want an election yet,

either, I suspect because he fears his popularity is not what a Captain’s should
be.

I will not force the issue. I might get elected by the Old Crew faction. And I
don’t want the job. I am not qualified.

I know my limitations. I am no leader. Hell, I don’t even handle these Annals
very well. I don’t see how Croaker kept them up and did all the other stuff he
had to do at the same time.

I ran all the way to my section of wall.

Something hit me like a small, silent cyclone of darkness that dropped out of
the night and nowhere. It devoured me, unseen by anyone around. It grabbed hold
of my soul and yanked. I went into the darkness thinking, Boy, the Shadowmaster
came back in a huge way, didn’t he ?

This was unlike anything I had encountered ever before. But why come after me?

There were few players less significant than I was.

I was summoned. I could not resist. I fought, but soon I realized that a strong
part of me did not want to win.

I was confused. I had no idea what was happening. I was sleepy . . . Was all
this just because I wasn’t getting enough sleep?

A voice called my name. The voice seemed vaguely familiar. “Murgen! Come home,

Murgen!” I felt violent motion, probably due to a blow I didn’t feel. “Come on,

Murgen! You have to fight it.”

What?

“He’s coming. He’s coming back!”

I groaned. A major accomplishment, apparently, because it generated more
excitement.

I groaned again. Now I knew who I was but not where I was or why, or who that
voice belonged to. “I’m getting up!” I tried to say. Must be some kind of
training. “I’m getting up, god-damnit!” And I tried. But my muscles would not
lift me.

They were rigid.

Hands pulled on my arms.

A new voice said, “Stand him up. Get him walking.”

The original voice said, “We’ve got to find a way to head these seizures off
before they happen.”

“I’m open to suggestion.”

“You’re the doctor.”

“It’s not a disease, Goblin. You’re the sorcerer.”

“It ain’t sorcery, either, Chief.”

“Then what the hell is it?”

“Anyway, it isn’t any sorcery like any I ever seen or heard of.”

They had me upright now. My knees would not cooperate but these guys would not
let me fall down.

I opened an eye. I saw Goblin and the Old Man. But the Old Man was dead. I tried
my tongue. “I think I’m back.” This time I had it. This time my words were
slurred but understandable.

“He is back,” Goblin said.

“Keep him moving.”

“He ain’t drunk, Croaker. He’s back. He’s aware. He can hang on here. You can
hang on here now, can’t you, Murgen?”

“Yeah. I’m here. I won’t drift away as long as I’m awake.” Where was here? I
looked around. Oh. There. Again.

“What happened?” the Old Man asked.

“I got pulled into the past again.”

“Dejagore?”

“It’s always Dejagore. This was the day you came back. The day I met Sarie.”

Croaker grunted.

“It hurts less each time. This trip wasn’t bad. But you lose a lot besides the
pain. I didn’t see half the horror I know was there.”

“Maybe that’s good. Maybe if you can shed all of that you can break out of
this.”

“I’m not crazy, Croaker. I’m not doing this to myself.”

Goblin said, “It’s getting harder to pull him back, not easier. This time he
wouldn’t have made it without us.”

My turn to grunt. I could get caught in a cycle of reliving the nadir of my
life, over and over.

Goblin had not guessed the worst. I was not back yet. They had dragged me up out
of the deeps of yesterday but I was not home. This was my past, too, only this
time I was aware of my dislocation. And I knew what evils lurked in my future.

“What was it like?” Goblin stared like that every time. Like some facial tic of
mine might be the one clue he needs to unravel the puzzle and rescue me. Croaker
leaned against the wall, the way he does, satisfied now that I was talking.

“Same as every other time. Just less painful. Although this time when I started
out I wasn’t really me. That was different. I was just a disembodied voice, just
a viewpoint giving a guide’s sort of speech to a faceless visitor.”

“Also disembodied?” Croaker asked. This variation had him interested.

“No. There was somebody there. A complete person but he had no face.”

Goblin and Croaker exchanged troubled looks. At that time Otto and Hagop were
still away. “What sex?” Croaker asked.

“Wasn’t clear. It wasn’t the Faceless Man, though. I don’t think it was anybody
from our past. Might just have been something out of my own head. I might have
separated me into pieces so I wouldn’t have to deal with so much pain in such
big blasts.”

Goblin shook his head, not buying that. “It ain’t you, Murgen. Something is
doing this. Besides who, we want to know why and why you. Did you catch any
clues? How did it go? Try for specifics. It’s teeny details that will give us
our handle.”

“I was detached completely when it started. I went down into it gradually. Then
I was the Murgen back then, living it all over again, trying to get it all down
in the Annals, unaware of the future at all. You remember going swimming when
you were a kid? When somebody would come up out of the water behind you to dunk
you? He would jump in the air and put his hand on top of your head, then let his
weight push you under? If you were in deep water instead of just going straight
down you would sort of curve through the water and lay out flat? This whole
thing went like that. Only once I was out flat I couldn’t float to the top. I
forgot that I have done it all before, almost always the same way, who knows how
many times? Maybe if I could remember the future back then I could change the
way things went, or maybe at least I could make extra copies of my books so they
don’t get . . . ”

“What?” Croaker was alert now. Mention the Annals and you have his undivided
attention. “What was that?”

Did he realize that I was remembering the future? In this time my volumes of the
Annals are still safe.

The fear and the pain swarmed in on me, then. The despair followed. Because
despite all those plunges back there, and despite the visits here, I cannot stop
anything from happening. No amount of willpower can divert the river from the
horrors.

For a moment I could not talk because I had so much to say. Then, obliquely, I
managed, “You came here about the Grove of Doom. Right?” I knew this night. I
have been through this country often enough to know its terrain well. Here the
landscape varies slightly from visit to visit but afterward time becomes the
same relentless river.

If I squinted I could almost see the ghosts of other versions playing out
alternate dialogs.

Croaker was surprised. “The grove?”

“You want me to take the Company out to the Grove of Doom. Right? It’s time for
some Deceiver festival. You think Narayan Singh himself might show up for this
one. You think there’s a good chance to catch him or to catch somebody who knows
where he has your baby hidden. Worst chance, you think we’ll get the opportunity
to kill lots of them and make them hurt more than they already do.”

Croaker has been implacable in his resolve to exterminate the Deceivers. More so
even than Lady has been, I think, and she was the more deeply insulted of the
two. Once upon a time he wanted his legacy to be the completion of the Black
Company’s historical cycle. He wanted to be captain when the Company returned to
Khatovar. He has the dream still but a nightmare shoved it aside. The nightmare
demands satisfaction. Until its gossamer thread of terror, pain, cruelty and
revenge has been spun, Khatovar is going to remain nothing but an excuse, not a
destination.

Croaker eyed me uncertainly. “How could you know about the grove?”

“I came back knowing.” Which was true. But the two of us would not give the same
meaning to “back.”

“You’ll take the men out there?”

“I can’t not.”

Goblin eyed me weirdly, too, now.

I would do it. And I knew how it would go but I could not tell them that. There
were two minds inside my head. The one doing this thinking wasn’t the one
heaving on the running lines and reefing the sails.

“I’m all right now,” I told them. And, “I think there is a way to keep me from
falling back. At least, to keep me from going so far back. But I can’t get it
out.” I would have shared gladly. I did not want to keep stumbling off the edge
of time to fall back into those too real dark dreams of Dejagore’s past. Not
even if I tumbled into a viewpoint almost blind to the horror and cruelty
everywhere then.

Croaker started to say something.

I interrupted. “I’ll be down for the staff meeting in ten minutes.”

I could not tell them anything directly but maybe I could get something out
sideways.

But I knew nothing would change. The worst of all horrors was waiting up ahead
and I was powerless to avert it.

I’d still do my best in the grove. Just in case this time that would come out
differently. If I could remember the future well enough to make the right moves.

You. Whoever you are. Whatever you are. You keep dragging me to the wellsprings
of pain. Why do you do that? What do you want? Who are you? What are you?

As always, you give me no answers.