Gardens of the Moon

“Damn,” Lorn hissed. “Help me to my feet.”



After he'd done so, she wobbled a bit and gripped his shoulder to steady herself. Then she nodded. “Get me my sword.”



Toc strode to the spot she'd indicated. After a brief search he found the longsword in the grass, and his eye thinned to a slit upon seeing the weapon's dusty red blade. He brought it to her, and said, “An Otataral sword, Adjunct, the ore that kills magic.”



“And mages,” Lorn said, taking the weapon awkwardly in her left hand and sheathing it.



“I came upon the dead shaman,” Toc said.



“Well,” Lorn said, “Otataral is no mystery to you of the Seven Cities, but few here know it, and I would keep it that way.”



“Understood.” Toc turned to regard the immobile Imass.



Lorn seemed to read his thought. “Otataral cannot quench their magic-believe me, it's been tried. The Warrens of the Imass are similar to those of the Jaghut and the Forkrul Assail-Elder-, blood- and earthbound-that flint sword of his will never break, and it cuts through the finest iron as easily as it will flesh and bone.”



Toc shivered and spat. “I'll not envy you your company, Adjunct.”



Lorn smiled. “You'll be sharing it for the next few days, Toc the Younger. We've a long walk to Pale.”



“Six, seven days,” Toc said. “I expected you to be mounted.”



Lorn's sigh was heartfelt. “The Barghast shaman worked his talents on them. A disease took them all, even my stallion, which I brought with me through the Warren.” Her lined face softened momentarily, and Toc could feel her genuine sorrow.



It surprised him. All that he'd heard of the Adjunct had painted for him a picture of a cold-blooded monster, the gauntleted hand of death that could descend from anywhere at any time. Perhaps this side of her existed; he hoped he would not have to see it. Then again, he corrected himself, she'd not spared her soldiers a second glance. Toc spoke, “You'll ride my mare, Adjunct. She's no warhorse, but she's quick and long on endurance.”



They walked to where he'd left his horse, and Lorn smiled. “That's a Wickan breed, Toc the Younger,” she said, as she laid a hand on the mare's neck, “so cease the modesty, else I lose trust in you. A fine animal.”



Toc helped her into the saddle. “Do we leave the Imass where it is?” he asked.



Lorn nodded. “He'll find his own way. Now, let's give this mare the opportunity to prove herself. Wickan blood is said to smell of iron.” She reached down and offered her left arm. “Mount up,” she said.



Toc barely managed to hide his shock. Share the saddle with the Adjunct of the Empire? The notion was so absurd that he came near to laughing. “I can walk, Adjunct,” he said gruffly. “With such little time to waste, you would be better to ride on, and ride hard. You'll see Pale's walls in three days. I can manage a jog at ten-hour stretches.”



“No, Toc the Younger.” Lorn's tone brooked no argument. “I need you in Pale, and I need to hear all there is about the occupying legions, and Dujek, and Tayschrenn. Better to arrive a few days late than unprepared. Now, grasp my arm and let's be on with it.”



Toc complied.



As he sank into the saddle behind Lorn, his mare snorted and stepped quickly to one side. Both he and the Adjunct almost fell. They turned to see the T'lan Imass standing beside them. It raised its head to Lorn.



“The barrow has yielded a truth, Adjunct,” Onos T'oolan said.



Toc felt her stiffen. “And that is?”



“We are upon the right path,” the T'lan Imass replied.



Something told Toc that the path the creature referred to had nothing to do with the trader's track leading south to Pale. He cast one final glance back at the barrow as Lorn silently swung the horse around, and then at Onos T'oolan. Neither seemed likely to unveil their secrets, but Lorn's reaction had raised the hairs on the back of his neck, and the itch around his lost eye roused itself. Toc muttered a curse under his breath and began to scratch.



“Something the matter, Toc the Younger?” Lorn asked, not turning.



He thought about his reply. He said, “The price of being blind, Adjunct. Nothing more.”



Captain Paran paced in the narrow room. This was madness! All he knew was that he was being hidden, but the only answers to his questions would come from a bed-ridden sorceress locked in some strange fever, and a nasty puppet whose painted eyes seemed to fix on him with intense hatred.



Vague memories haunted him as well, the feel of slick, cold stones scraping beneath his fingernails at a moment when all his strength had poured from his body; and then the hazy vision of a massive dog-a Hound? — in the room, a dog that seemed to breathe death. It had been seeking to kill the woman, and he'd stopped it-somehow, he wasn't sure of the details.