She Is The Darkness

11

I was never a boozer or hophead. In this part of the world all the major religions frown on alcohol so there is not a lot available though One-Eye never has trouble finding the little there is. If none is around he will make some. All my life addictions scared the shit out of me. When I see a guy whose pain has driven him behind the veil of alcohol or any drug I want to flee the same weakness I fear can be found inside me.

I was becoming addicted to the freedom from pain to be found in the in between. When I was out there with Smoke the horrors of Dejagore and the agony left behind by Sarie’s murder became no more than distant, nagging aches. That weak side of me kept promising that even the faraway aches would fade if Smoke and I just kept working.

I was both happy and completely miserable at the same time. My in-laws were little help. Thai Dei, as ever, said almost nothing. Uncle Doj merely urged me to be strong. “Death and despair are what we endure all our lives. This world is all one of pain and loss illuminated only briefly by moments of happiness and wonder. We must live for those times, not bemoan their passing.”

“We must live for revenge,” Mother Gota snapped. “You old fool.” She was contemptuous as she glared at me. Nor did she spare my feelings. “My mother was a madwoman in her last days. We will be well rid of this weakling.”

Being a weakling and not much caring for this world anymore, I did not feel obliged to keep the peace. “I bet that back in the swamp they thank their lucky stars every night that you decided not to come home.”

Thai Dei became pure stone as I put him in a spot where his obligations had to butt heads.

Uncle Doj chuckled. He rested a hand on Thai Dei’s arm. “A shaft well sped, youngster. Gota, I must remind you that we are here on sufferance. The Stone Soldier accepts us for Sahra’s sake. His master does not.”

Though I have a pretty good handle on Nyueng Bao these days I knew I had missed some key part of that. I did understand that he was telling her not to piss Croaker off because he might toss them out. And that was something he could perfectly well do. He considered them little more than camp followers. And Croaker hates camp followers. He considers them worse than leeches.

I had to wonder if Uncle Doj was not interested in something more than just revenge for the murders of Sahra and Thai Dei’s son To Tan.

I am not certain where we were. I think about eighty miles south of Dejagore and passing over into territories only recently taken into our hands, where our appearance was endured with the same stoicism as the earthquake. Not much cleaning up had gotten done because the Shadowmaster’s henchmen had employed the locals in a vain attempt to blunt our advance. Brave fools. Now there was no one to bury them.

Total paranoia hit me there.

I was unaware of the fact because I was in the wagon but we were just making camp. I was out scouting the maneuvers of Mogaba’s cavalry and sitting in on his planning session for making our lives much more unpleasant at Charandaprash. I had a sneer in my heart. He would not have a single surprise for us. From having watched Lady and all the special forces she and Croaker had put together I knew we would have plenty for Mogaba.

Bright man, he expected that. He got to know Croaker pretty well before he deserted to the Shadowmaster.

Then the paranoia hit. Smugness evaporated. Had I been in flesh I would have begun to shake as though suddenly thrown into an icy river. I knew I was not alone.

I would have panicked except for the dullness of emotion out there. I did do a sort of sudden spin around on the spirit level.

For a second I thought I saw a face, not directed my way.

It was a face out of a collective nightmare, as big as a cow, the color of ripe eggplant. Its smile was all fangs. And it was smiling at whatever it saw.

Its eyes were plates of fire that, at the same time, seemed to be pools of darkness capable of drowning souls.

I withdrew, very carefully at first, but in full flight toward the safety of reality when the face seemed suddenly startled and began to turn. I emerged too terrified to be hungry or thirsty. I was shaking and babbling and making no sense at all. The Old Man was close by. One-Eye had him in the wagon by the time I got myself under control.

“What the hell happened, Murgen? You have some kind of fit? You going to start going away again on me?” He touched me, felt the shakes that still went right down to the heart of me. “One-Eye...”

I croaked out, “I just saw Kina. I don’t know if she saw me.”

Death is eternity. Eternity is stone. Stone is silence. Stone speaketh not but stone doth remember. Deep within the dark heart of the grey fastness stands a massive throne of worm-eaten wood. This throne has shifted sideways and tilted dramatically. A dark shape sprawls upon the throne, locked in enchanted slumber, nailed down by silver daggers driven through its limbs. Its once vacant face is drawn in agony.

The figure draws a deep breath. Silence yields to a great slow rumbling beat.

This is immortality of a sort but its price is paid in diamonds of pain, in treasure by the bucket.

In the night, when the wind no longer blows and small shadows no longer creep, the fortress reclaims its silence.

Silence is stone. Stone is eternity. Eternity is death.