The White Rose



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Chapter Sixteen:
THE PLAIN OF FEAR

You get mad and walk out on Darling, you can miss a lot. Elmo,
One-Eye, Goblin, Otto, those guys like to bait me. They were not
about to clue me in. They got everybody else to go along. Even
Tracker, who seemed to be taking a shine to me and chattered at me
more than everybody else combined, would not drop a hint. So when
the day came, I went topside in total ignorance.

I’d packed the usual field gear. Our traditions are heavy
infantry, though mostly we ride these days. All of us are too old
to lug eighty pounds of gear. I dragged mine to the cavern that
serves as a stable and smells like the grandfather of them all—and
found that not one animal was saddled. Well, one.
Darling’s.

The stable boy just grinned when I asked what was going on.
“Go on up,” he said. “Sir.”

“Yeah? Rotten bastards. They play games with me?
I’ll get them. They damned well better start remembering who
keeps the Annals around here.” I bitched and moaned all the
way into the pre-moonset shadows that lurked around the tunnel
mouth. There I found the rest of the outfit, all already up, with
light gear. Each man carried his weapons and a sack of dried
food.

“What you doing, Croaker?” One-Eye asked with
suppressed laughter. “Look like you’re taking
everything you own. You a turtle? Carry your house on your
back?”

And Elmo: “We ain’t moving, boy. Just going on a
raid.”

“You’re a bunch of sadists, you know that?” I
stepped into the wan light. The moon was half an hour from setting.
Far, Taken drifted on the night. Those son-of-a-bitches were
determined to keep a close watch. Nearer, a whole horde of menhirs
had gathered. They looked like a graveyard out on the desert, there
were so many of them. There were a lot of walking trees, too.

More, though there was no breeze, I could hear Old Father Tree
tinkling. No doubt that meant something. A menhir might have
explained. But the stones remain close-mouthed about themselves and
their fellow species. Especially about Father Tree. Most of them
won’t admit he exists.

“Better lighten your load, Croaker,” the Lieutenant
said. He would not explain either.

“You going too?” I asked, surprised.

“Yep. Move it. We don’t have long. Weapons and field
medical kit should do it. Scoot.”

I met Darling going down. She smiled. Grouchy as I was, I smiled
back. I can’t stay mad at her. I have known her since she was
so high. Since Raven rescued her from the Limper’s thugs long
ago, in the Forsberg campaigns. I cannot see the woman that is
without recalling the child that was. I get all sentimental and
soft.

They tell me I suffer from a crippling romantic streak. Looking
back, I’m almost inclined to agree. All those silly stories I
wrote about the Lady . . . 

The moon was on the rim of the world when I returned topside. A
whisper of excitement coursed among the men. Darling was up there
with them, astride her flashy white mare, moving around, gesturing
at those who understood sign. Above, the spots of luminescence that
are characteristic of windwhale tentacles drifted lower than
I’d ever heard tell of. Except in horror stories about
starved whales dropping down to drag their tentacles on the ground,
ripping up every plant and animal in their path.

“Hey!” I said. “We’d better look out.
That sucker is coming down.” A vast shadow blotted out
thousands of stars. And it was expanding. Manias swarmed around it.
Big ones, little ones, in-between ones—more than I’d ever
seen.

My expostulation drew laughter. I turned surly again. I moved
among the men, harassing them about the medical kits I expect them
to carry on a mission. I was in a better mood when I finished. They
all had them.

The windwhale kept coming down.

The moon disappeared. The instant it did the menhirs began to
move. Moments later they began to glow on the side toward us. The
side away from the Taken.

Darling rode along the pathway they marked. When she passed a
menhir its light went out. I suspect it moved to the far end of the
line.

I had no time to check. Elmo and the Lieutenant herded us into a
line of our own. Above, the night filled with the squeaks and
flutter of manias squabbling for flying room.

The windwhale settled astride the creek.

My god, it was big. Big! I had no
idea . . . It stretched from the coral over
the creek another two hundred yards. Four, five hundred yards long,
all total. And seventy to a hundred wide.

A menhir spoke. I could not make out its words. But the men
began moving forward.

In a minute my worst suspicions were confirmed. They were
climbing the creature’s flank, onto its back, where mantas
normally nested.

It smelled. Smelled unlike anything I’ve ever smelled
before, and strongly. Richly, you might say. Not necessarily a bad
smell, but overpowering. And it felt strange to the touch. Not
hairy, scaly, horny. Not exactly slimy, but still spongy and slick,
like a full, exposed intestine. There were plenty of handholds. Our
fingers and boots did not bother it.

The menhir mumbled and grumbled like an old first sergeant, both
issuing orders and relaying complaints from the windwhale. I got
the impression the windwhale was a naturally grouchy sort. He did
not like this any more than did I. Can’t say I blame him.

Up top there were more menhirs, each balanced precariously. As I
arrived, one menhir told me to go to another of its kind. That one
told me to sit about twenty feet away. The last men climbed aboard
only moments later.

The menhirs vanished.

I began to feel odd. At first blush I thought that was because
the whale was lifting off. When I flew with the Lady or Whisper or
Soulcatcher, my stomach was in continual rebellion. But this was a
different malaise. It took a while to understand it as an
absence.

Darling’s null was fading. It had been with me so long it
had become part of my life . . . 

What was happening?

We were going up. I felt the breeze shift. The stars turned
ponderously. Then, suddenly, the whole north lighted up.

Mantas were attacking the Taken. A whole mess of them. The
stroke was a complete surprise, for all the Taken must have sensed
their presence. But the mantas were not doing that sort of
thing . . . 

Oh, hell, I thought. They’re pushing them our
way . . . 

I grinned. Not our way at all. Toward Darling and her null, in a
place unexpected.

As the thought occurred I saw the flash of vain sorceries, saw a
carpet stagger, flutter earthward. A score of mantas swarmed
it.

Maybe Darling was not as dumb as I thought. Maybe these Taken
could be taken out. A profit, for sure, if nothing else went
right.

But what were we doing? The lightning illuminated my companions.
Nearest me were Tracker and Toadkiller Dog. Tracker seemed bored.
But Toadkiller Dog was as alert as I had seen him. He was sitting
up, watching the display. The only time I ever saw him not on his
belly was at mealtime.

His tongue was out. He panted. Had he been human, I would have
said he was grinning.

The second Taken tried to impress the mantas with his power. He
was too immensely outnumbered. And below, Darling was moving. That
second Taken suddenly entered her null. Down he went. The manta
swarm pursued.

Both would survive landing. But then they would be afoot at the
heart of the Plain, which tonight had taken a stand. Their chances
of walking out looked grim.

The windwhale was up a couple thousand feet now, moving
northeast, gaining speed. How far to the edge of the Plain nearest
Rust? Two hundred miles? Fine. We might make it before dawn. But
what about the last thirty miles, beyond the Plain?

Tracker started singing. His voice was soft at first. His song
was old. Soldiers of the north countries had sung it for
generations. It was a dirge, a song-before-death sung in memory of
those about to die. I heard it in Forsberg, sung on both sides.
Another voice took it up. Then another and another. Perhaps fifteen
men knew it, of forty or so.

The windwhale glided northward. Far, far below, the Plain of
Fear slid away, utterly invisible.

I began to sweat, though the upper air was cold.



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