Beyond the Moons (10 page)

“I am of age to serve in the ranks of the giff,” Trooper Gomja answered, again standing at attention as he spoke. A dragonfly whirred by and settled on the spreading head of a sunflower beside the road.

Teldin couldn’t help but notice the defensive tone in the giffs voice. “How old is ‘of age’?”

“Sixteen cycles of the spheres,” Gomja answered with exaggerated pride.

“Sixteen cycles – oh, sixteen years,” Teldin said, nodding. He found himself reevaluating his relationship, such as it was, with the giff. Teldin was twice the trooper’s age, even as old as a parent. “And what about your family? They weren’t on the ship, were they?”

“Family?” Gomja cocked his head, bemused by the question. “I was of the Red Platoon.”

Teldin did not understand the gift’s answer. “But you do have a mother and father? Parents – family?”

“Of course I had sires,” Gomja replied, explaining the obvious, “but I am of the Red Platoon. Giff do not live with their sires.

Although it seemed unnatural, Teldin accepted this, given the giff’s curious militaristic bearing. He started walking again, slowly, so that the giff could keep pace. “Well, then, where’s the rest of the Red Platoon?”

“I am Red Platoon – or all that’s left,” Gomja answered sadly. The giff wiped away a rivulet of sweat that ran down the center of his muzzle. “The others were on board. They did not have the chance to die fighting.” Teldin wasn’t sure, but it looked like a small tear was forming in the corner of the gift’s tiny eye. If it did, the tear quickly disappeared into the fleshy folds of the gift’s jowls. The farmer decided not to bring the subject up again.

Flies buzzed between the two, attracted by the scent of sweat that reeked from the pair. It was not until the road reached the edge of the hills overlooking the Vingaard River that Teldin felt the urge to talk again. He looked out to see the river flowing across the valley floor.

“Those creatures, the neogi,” the farmer carefully asked of Gomja, “will they be back?”

Gomja screwed up his brow in thought. “They might,” he allowed.

“Might …” Teldin mulled over the words. “And if they caught up with the cloak-bearer?”

“It would mean a fight,” Gomja countered, not sounding entirely displeased.

The two companions stopped for a rest at the edge of the road. Teldin leaned against a worn distance marker while Gomja sprawled back in the tall, sun-browned grass. The giff rubbed the big, round pads of his feet and let out a mock groan.

“In Kalaman,” Teldin said, speaking to himself, “I’d better find someone who can get this cloak off. I might even be able to sell it for the team I need. After all, it’s magical – I think.” Teldin fingered the fabric, little more than a circlet around his neck since its immersion in the stream.

The giff was not listening; he was too busy checking his feet for blisters.

Teldin spat out a mouthful of road dust. “Better get used to it – the marching, I mean,” he advised. “It’s a long walk to Kalaman.”

The giff raised his head and gazed mournfully at the human. “How far, sir?”

“A dozen leagues, at least.” Teldin looked under his arm at the stone marker. “Fourteen, by this.”

Gomja let his head fall back with an audible sigh.

“I thought you were a soldier. Didn’t your platoon ever march anywhere?” Teldin chided.

The giff rolled his bulk upright. “We were marines,” he answered proudly, “not groundlings. We served aboard ship. Marching is for groundlings.”

Teldin felt his temper rise at the giffs words. “I marched everywhere,” he said coldly. “You’d better remember, you’re a groundling now.

The giff reddened, or, more properly, purpled, as his face flushed. “Yes, sir. I will remember that.”

“Enough,” Teldin said with no rancor in his voice. There was no point in arguing. “It’s time to get marching. Kalaman won’t get any closer if we just sit here.” He stood and rolled his shoulders, flexing out the kinks. The giff heaved to his feet.

“I will carry the load, sir.” Gomja held out a huge hand for Teldin’s bedroll. “You should not have to carry it. I want to do my part.”

Teldin started to protest, then thought better of it. Shrugging the makeshift pack off his shoulder, he passed it over. The giff draped the undersized pack around his neck.

“You told me you were a mule skinner,” Gomja said as he lumbered along, adding a curious inflection to the words. “Mule Skinner is the name of your platoon? It would be a great unit to have such a fearsome name.

Swallowing hard, Teldin stifled a hoot of laughter. His blue eyes twinkled mischievously as he thought of how to answer. Finally, with a straight face and mock seriousness, Teldin explained, “Oh, yes, Trooper Gomja, mule skinners were a brave lot, all right. The mule is one of the most dangerous, clever, and ornery beasts found in the land. It was the mule skinners’ job to keep these creatures under control.”

Gomja’s little eyes grew wide as he absorbed every word Teldin spoke. “There must be many heroes in your unit, sir.”

A smirk escaped from Teldin’s lips. He fought to keep from collapsing with laughter. “There were many heroes much greater than any mule skinner.” The joke was going too far, and he doubted he could keep a straight face for much longer. “The mule skinners were only soldiers. Others did much more in the war.”

Gomja nodded, though Teldin wasn’t sure the giff accepted his answer. “Did your army win, sir?”

“Win the War of the Lance? I suppose so – yes, we did.” Teldin was relieved to be off the topic of mule skinners, but the question was certainly odd. He assumed everyone knew about the War of the Lance. “We chased the dragons and most of the draconians out, thanks to the Knights of Solamnia and the dragonlances.”

The giffs ears suddenly perked up. “Dragonlances? What are those?”

Teldin paused to spit out another mouthful of dust. “It’s a weapon, a lance. Dragonriders carried them. They were supposed to be special against dragons.” Teldin had never seen an actual dragonlance, and everything he knew about them came from camp tales. “One touch and,
poof
, the dragon was slain,” he explained with a wave of his hands.

“These must be mighty weapons,” Gomja said, awe-struck.

“We couldn’t have won the war without them,” Teldin agreed, nodding.

“Where can I get one of these dragonlances? I would like one.” There was no mistaking the eagerness in Gomja’s voice.

Teldin was taken aback by the directness of the question and the fact that the giff thought he could just go out a pick one up. “I don’t know. Maybe Kalaman. Palanthas, for sure,” he equivocated.

“Good. I’m going to Kalaman. I’ll look for one there.” Gomja gazed down the Kalaman road. “It will not be such a long march.” With that, he picked up the pace.

Teldin fell into an easy stride beside the hastily lumbering giff, but by noon, human and giff were both thoroughly hungry. When they had started, Teldin expected to meet farmers on the road, carrying vegetables to the Kalaman market. It was his plan to buy food for their journey with the little money he’d rescued from the wreckage of his house. Unfortunately, the plan was not working.

Teldin’s thoughts of food were interrupted by a sound different from the whine of the locusts and songs of the field birds. From behind came the groaning creak of wagon wheels and the snap and jingle of a harness. Looking back, he saw a wagon rounding the bend, but the wagon master hadn’t yet seen the pair.

The road at this point passed through a narrow cut. Thick brush and trees grew close to the banks, forming a shaded alley. These would give more than enough cover for Gomja. “Quickly,” Teldin ordered the giff, “get into the bushes and stay out of sight.”

“Yes, sir,” Gomja replied. His huge bulk swaying from side to side, the giff trotted off the road and behind a thicket. From the bushes he called out. “Shall I attack on your command?”

“Don’t do or say anything!” Teldin hissed back in exasperation.

“Yes, sir,” came Gomja’s muffled answer. The bushes rustled and grasshoppers leaped away as the giff settled in.

Teldin brushed the dust from his clothes and stood by the side of the road. He studied the wagon as it drew closer. It was really nothing but a simple farmer’s cart, with two big wheels and high sides. A pair of horses were in the hitch, plodding forward, urged on by a gaunt farmer’s whip. Next to the farmer sat a grubby youth, sucking on an orange. The boy casually spit orange seeds as the cart jolted along.

“Greetings, farmer!” Teldin shouted as the wagon drew near.

The farmer frantically pulled back on the reins as he spotted Teldin, letting the cart rumble to a stop while still a good distance away. The hollow-faced fellow shaded his eyes to scrutinize Teldin. The youth watched curiously, his cheeks covered with orange pulp.

“Greetings to you, stranger,” the farmer finally said in a voice dry and dust-cracked. The words were slowly spoken, as if each were precious.

“My companion and I are bound for Kalaman,” Teldin explained as he began walking toward the cart.

“Stand where you are, stranger,” demanded the farmer. The older man spoke a quick, whispered word to the youth. The lad reached down and produced a small crossbow from under the seat. Fumblingly, he started to load the weapon. Before the boy got the bow set, however, he dropped the bolt. “We’ll have no funny business from you!” the farmer called to Teldin.

“We mean no harm. We only want a ride to Kalaman, if that’s where you’re bound,” Teldin shouted back. He spread his arms as if to prove his innocence.

“We? I only see one of you. You look like a brigand. You talk like a brigand.” The farmer, trying – and failing – to be discreet, squinted toward the bushes on either side of the path. The boy, still struggling with the crossbow, scooped up the dropped bolt only to have the empty bow twang as he accidentally released the trigger. The farmer angrily whispered to the lad, and the boy apologetically cowered as he started to work again.

“I’m no brigand,” Teldin protested, taking a few steps forward. The farmer raised his whip menacingly.

“Well, you’re dressed like one,” the old man shouted back.

Teldin was forced to consider his appearance and realized that the accusation fit the image. Here he was, a stranger standing in the middle of the road, wearing old farm clothes, with a battered cutlass slipped through his belt and a fine cloak – which seemed to have lengthened again – dangling from around his neck. It was hardly the dress of the ordinary traveler.

“I’m Teldin Moore of Dargaard Valley, a farmer like you. I’m just going to Kalaman to see family.” The driver squinted fiercely back, but did not relent. Teldin tried a different tact. “I’ll pay for the ride.”

“Just now you said ‘we’,” the gaunt farmer countered suspiciously. The lad at his side finally succeed in drawing back the crossbow’s string and fitting a bolt. He pointed the weapon unsteadily in Teldin’s direction, which only made Teldin fearful he’d be shot accidentally. “Which is it, I or we?”

Teldin thought fast, trying to think of a good explanation for Gomja. “Well... uh … I have a companion, but … uh … but he suffered cruel misfortune during the war.”

“I don’t care if he’s crippled or scarred. Have him out, or my boy shoots!” The lad looked up to his father, waiting for a signal.

“It’s not quite like that. He’s —” Teldin tried to explain. The old man cut him off with a quiver of the whip. “Very well. Trooper Gomja,” Teldin called back over his shoulder, “come on out – slowly.”

The branches of the thicket cracked as Gomja stepped into view. On the wagon, father and son gave a simultaneous gasp. The old man’s eyes widened while his boy almost dropped the crossbow again as he stood there stupidly, mouth agape.

“This is Trooper Gomja,” Teldin hastily said, before the wagon driver did something foolish. “He won’t hurt you. Please, let us ride with you.” The wagoneer nodded his head in stunned silence while the boy slowly lowered the crossbow. Human and giff quickly climbed aboard before the man had a chance to come to his senses.

For several hours they rode along in silence. The father and son were too terrified to speak to their passengers. The giff dozed off, basking in the sunshine. Teldin grew bored and clambered up to the front. “I apologize for our meeting,” he offered. “But why were you so frightened? You don’t seem to be carrying anything that valuable.”

“It’s true, all I have are oranges and almonds and such, but this road’s been dangerous ever since the war,” the farmer allowed. “Name’s Jacos, by the way.”

Teldin was puzzled. He had never heard of any trouble, but then, he had not been to Kalaman since he had left the army. ‘The war’s been over for years. I know, I was in it.”

“Maybe over for you, but there’s a lot of men who never learned how to put down the sword.” Jacos flicked the rump of his horses to keep them from straying after a nibble of grass. “A lot of soldiers didn’t want to go back home – or there wasn’t a home to go back to. Now they’ve found an easy life, robbing folks on the road.”

“What about the officials? What about the Knights of Solamnia? Couldn’t they to deal with that?”

“They did, for a while. I suppose it just wasn’t glamorous enough for them knights. Since they left, the local militia can’t keep up. Somebody gets robbed and the militia chases the bandits around for a while till things quiet down. Then everybody goes home.” There was an ominous tone in the old mans voice.

“I don’t mean to be rude,” said Jacos, changing the subject, “but what happened to your friend back there? You said it was something in the war.”

“What?” Teldin stalled. He’d been working up a story for just this question and now he had to remember all the details. He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

“Oh, him. He doesn’t like to talk much about it. They – you know, the Highlords – did something to him. Tried to make him over, like they did with draconians.” Teldin’s blue eyes took on a mischievous gleam. “Only they got that” — He nodded back toward Gomja — “instead. They called him a giff. It was a terrible thing. He won’t talk about it at all. In fact, I don’t think he even remembers it.”

Jacos and his son nodded, their eyes wide with wonder.