The White Rose



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Chapter Six:
THE PLAIN OF FEAR

I went up top for my watch. There was no sign of Elmo and his
men. The sun was low. The menhir was gone. There was no sound but
the voice of the wind.

Silent sat in shadow inside a reef of thousand-coral, dappled by
sunlight come through twisted branches. Coral makes good cover. Few
of the Plain’s denizens dare its poisons. The watch is always
in more danger from native exotica than from our enemies.

I twisted and ducked between deadly spines, joined Silent. He is
a long, lean, aging man. His dark eyes seemed focused on dreams
that had died. I deposited my weapons. “Anything?”

He shook his head, a single miniscule negative. I arranged the
pads I had brought. The coral twisted around us, branches and fans
climbing twenty feet high. We could see little but the creek
crossing and a few dead menhirs, and the walking trees on the far
slope. One tree stood beside the brook, taproot in the water. As
though sensing my attention, it began a slow retreat.

The visible Plain is barren. The usual desert life—lichens and
scrub brush, snakes and lizards, scorpions and spiders, wild dogs
and ground squirrels—is present but scarce. You encounter it mainly
when that is inconvenient. Which sums up Plain life generally. You
encounter the real strangeness only when that is most inopportune.
The Lieutenant claims a man trying to commit suicide here could
spend years without becoming uncomfortable.

The predominant colors are reds and browns, rust, ochre, blood-
and wine-shaded sandstones like the bluffs, with here and there the
random stratum of orange. The corals lay down scattered white and
pink reefs. True verdance is absent. Both walking trees and scrub
plants have leaves a dusty grey-green, in which green exists mainly
by acclamation. The menhirs, living and dead, are a stark
grey-brown unlike any stone native to the Plain.

A bloated shadow drifted across the wild scree skirting the
cliffs. It covered many acres, was too dark to be the shadow of a
cloud. “Windwhale?”

Silent nodded.

It cruised the upper air between us and the sun, but I could not
spot it. I had not seen one in years. Last time Elmo and I were
crossing the Plain with Whisper, on the Lady’s
behalf . . .  That long ago? Time does flee,
and with little fun in it. “Strange waters under the bridge,
my friend. Strange waters under.”

He nodded, but he did not speak. He is Silent.

He has not spoken in all the years I have known him. Nor in the
years he has been with the Company. Yet both One-Eye and my
predecessor as Annalist say he is quite capable of speech. From
hints accumulated over the years, it has become my firm conviction
that in his youth, before he signed on, he swore a great oath never
to speak. It being the iron law of the Company not to pry into a
man’s life before he enlisted, I have been unable to learn
anything about the circumstances.

I have seen him come close to speaking, when he was angry
enough, or amused enough, but always he caught himself at the last
instant. For a long time men made a game of baiting him, trying to
get him to break his vow, but most abandoned the effort quickly.
Silent had a hundred little ways of discouraging a man, like
filling his bedroll with ticks.

Shadows lengthened. Stains of darkness spread. At last Silent
rose, stepped over me, returned to the Hole, a darkly clad shadow
moving through darkness. A strange man, Silent. Not only does he
not talk; he does not gossip. How can you get a handle on a guy
like that?

Yet he is one of my oldest and closest friends. Go explain
that.

“Well, Croaker.” The voice was as hollow as a
ghost’s. I started. Malicious laughter rattled through the
coral reef. A menhir had slipped up on me. I turned slightly. It
stood square on the path Silent had taken, twelve feet tall and
ugly. A runt of its kind.

“Hello, rock.”

Having amused itself at my expense, it now ignored me. Stayed as
silent as a stone. Ha-ha.

The menhirs are our principal allies upon the Plain. They
interlocute for the other sentient species. They let us know what
is happening only when it suits them, however.

“What’s happening with Elmo?” I asked.

Nothing.

Are they magic? I guess not. Otherwise they would not survive
inside the nullity Darling radiates. But what are they? Mysteries.
Like most of the bizarre creatures out here.

“There are strangers on the Plain.”

“I know. I know.”

Night creatures came out. Dots of luminescence fluttered and
swooped above. The windwhale whose shadow I saw came far enough
eastward to show me its glimmering underbelly. It would descend
soon, trailing tendrils to trap whatever came its way. A breeze
rose.

Sagey scents trickled across my nostrils. Air chuckled and
whispered and murmured and whistled in the coral. From farther away
came the wind-chimes tinkle of Old Father Tree.

He is unique. First or last of his kind, I do not know. There he
stands, twenty feet tall and ten thick, brooding beside the creek,
radiating something akin to dread, his roots planted on the
geographical center of the Plain. Silent, Goblin, and One-Eye have
all tried to unravel his significance. They have gotten nowhere.
The scarce wild human tribesmen of the Plain worship him. They say
he has been here since the dawn. He does have that timeless
feel.

The moon rose. While it lay torpid and pregnant on the horizon I
thought I saw something cross it. Taken? Or one of the Plain
creatures?

A racket rose round the mouth of the Hole. I groaned. I did not
need this. Goblin and One-Eye. For half a minute, uncharitably, I
wished they had not come back. “Knock it off. I don’t
want to hear that crap.”

Goblin scooted up outside the coral, grinned, dared me to do
something. He looked rested, recuperated. One-Eye asked,
“Feeling cranky, Croaker?”

“Damned straight.
What’re you doing out here?”

“Needed some fresh
air.” He cocked his head, stared at the line of cliffs. So.
Worried about Elmo. “He’ll be all right,” I
said.

“I know.” One-Eye added, “I lied. Darling sent
us. She felt something stir at the west edge of the null.”

“Ah?”

“I don’t know what it was, Croaker.” Suddenly
he was defensive. Pained. He would have known but for Darling. He
stands where I would were I stripped of my medical gear. Helpless
to do what he has trained at all his life.

“What’re you
going to do?”

“Build a fire.”

“What?”

That fire roared. One-Eye got so ambitious he dragged in enough
deadwood to serve half a legion. The flames beat back the darkness
till I could see fifty yards beyond the creek. The last walking
trees had departed. Probably smelled One-Eye coming.

He and Goblin dragged in a fallen tree of the ordinary sort. We
leave the walkers alone, except to right clumsies that trip on
their own roots. Not that that happens often. They do not travel
much.

They were bickering about who was dogging his share of work.
They dropped the tree. “Fade,” Goblin said, and in a
moment there was no sign of them. Baffled, I surveyed the darkness.
I saw nothing, heard nothing.

I found myself having trouble remaining awake. I broke up the
dead tree for something to do. Then I felt the oddness.

I stopped in midbreak. How long had the menhirs been gathering?
I counted fourteen on the verges of the light. They cast long, deep
shadows. “What’s up?” I asked, my nerves a bit
frayed.

“There are strangers on the Plain.”

Hell of a tune they played. I settled near the fire, back to it,
tossed wood over my shoulder, building the flames. The light
spread. I counted another ten menhirs. After a time I said,
“That’s not exactly news.”

“One comes.”

That was new. And spoken with passion, something I had not
witnessed before. Once, twice, I thought I caught a flicker of
motion, but I could not be sure. Firelight is tricky. I piled on
more wood.

Movement for sure. Beyond the creek. Manshape coming toward me,
slowly. Wearily. I settled in pretended boredom. He came nearer.
Across his right shoulder he carried a saddle and blanket held with
his left hand. In his right he carried a long wooden case, its
polish gleaming in the firelight. It was seven feet long and four
inches by eight. Curious.

I noticed the dog as they crossed the creek. A mongrel, ragged,
mangy, mostly a dirty white but with a black circle around one eye
and a few daubs of black on its flanks. It limped, carrying one
forepaw off the ground. The fire caught its eyes. They burned
bright red.

The man was over six feet, maybe thirty. He moved lithely even
in his weariness. He had muscles on muscles. His tattered shirt
revealed arms and chest crisscrossed with scars. His face was empty
of emotion. He met my gaze as he approached the fire, neither
smiling nor betraying unfriendly intent.

Chill touched me, lightly. He looked tough, but not tough enough
to negotiate the Plain of Fear alone.

First order of business would be to stall. Otto was due out to
relieve me soon. The fire would alert him. He would see the
stranger, then duck down and rouse the Hole. “Hello,” I
said.

He halted, exchanged glances with his mongrel. The dog came
forward slowly, sniffing the air, searching the surrounding night.
It stopped a few feet away, shook as though wet, settled on its
belly.

The stranger came forward just that far. “Take a load
off,” I invited.

He swung his saddle down, lowered his case, sat. He was stiff.
He had trouble crossing his legs. “Lose your
horse?”

He nodded. “Broke a leg. West of here, five, six miles. I
lost the trail.”

There are trails through the Plain. Some of them the Plain
honors as safe. Sometimes. According to a formula known only to its
denizens. Only someone desperate or stupid hazards them alone,
though. This fellow did not look like an idiot.

The dog made a whuffling sound. The man scratched its ears.

“Where you headed?”

“Place called the
Fastness.”

That is the legend-name, the propaganda name, for the Hole. A
calculated bit of glamor for the troops in faraway places.
“Name?”

“Tracker. This is Toadkiller Dog.”

“Pleased to
meet you, Tracker. Toadkiller.”

The dog grumbled. Tracker
said, “You have to use his whole name. Toadkiller
Dog.”

I kept a straight face only because he was such a big, grim,
tough-looking man. “What’s this Fastness?” I
asked. “I never heard of it.”

He lifted hard, dark eyes from the mutt, smiled.
“I’ve heard it lies near Tokens.”

Twice in one day? Was it the day of twos? No. Not bloody likely.
I did not like the look of the man, either. Reminded me too much of
our one-time brother Raven. Ice and iron. I donned my baffled face.
It is a good one. “Tokens? That’s a new one on me. Must
be somewhere way the hell out east. What are you headed there for,
anyway?”

He smiled again. His dog opened one eye, gave me a baleful look.
They did not believe me.

“Carrying messages.”

“I see.”

“Mainly a packet. Addressed to somebody named
Croaker.”

I sucked spittle between teeth, slowly scanned the surrounding
darkness. The circle of light had shrunk, but the number of menhirs
remained undiminished. I wondered about One-Eye and Goblin.
“Now there’s a name I’ve heard,” I said.
“Some kind of sawbones.” Again the dog gave me that
look. This time, I decided, it was sarcastic.

One-Eye stepped out of the darkness behind Tracker, sword ready
to do the dirty deed. Damn, but he came quiet. Witchery or no.

I gave him away with a flicker of surprise. Tracker and his dog
looked back. Both were startled to see someone there. The dog rose.
Its hackles lifted. Then it sank to the ground again, having
twisted till it could keep us both in sight.

But then Goblin appeared, just as quietly. I smiled. Tracker
glanced over. His eyes narrowed. He looked thoughtful, like a man
discovering he was in a card game with rogues sharper than he had
expected. Goblin chuckled. “He wants in, Croaker. I say we
take him down.”

Tracker’s hand twitched toward the case he had carried.
His animal growled. Tracker closed his eyes. When they opened, he
was in control. His smile returned. “Croaker, eh? Then
I’ve found the Fastness.”

“You’ve found it, friend.”

Slowly, so as not to alarm anyone, Tracker took an oilskin
packet from his saddlebag. It was the twin of that I had received
only half a day before. He offered it to me. I tucked it inside my
shirt. “Where’d you get it?”

“Oar.” He told the same story as the other
messenger.

I nodded. “You’ve come that far, then?”

“Yes.”

“We should take him in, then,” I told One-Eye. He
caught my meaning. We would let this messenger come face to face
with the other. See if sparks flew. One-Eye grinned.

I glanced at Goblin. He approved.

None of us felt quite right about Tracker. I am not sure
why.

“Let’s go,” I said. I hoisted myself off the
ground with my bow.

Tracker eyed the stave. He started to say something, shut up. As
though he recognized it. I smiled as I turned away. Maybe he
thought he had fallen foul of the Lady. “Follow
me.”

He did. And Goblin and One-Eye followed him, neither helping
with his gear. His dog limped beside him, nose to the ground.
Before we went inside, I glanced southward, concerned. When would
Elmo come home?

We put Tracker and mutt into a guarded cell. They did not
protest. I went to my quarters after wakening Otto, who was
overdue. I tried to sleep, but that damned packet lay on the table
screaming.

I was not sure I wanted to read its contents.

It won the battle.



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