David Cook - Beyong the Moons

“Across the ridge and then just a little farther,” Teldin answered, somewhat annoyed with his big companion. He kept his voice to a whisper.

“What are you going to do?” Gomja asked.

Teldin wondered if the giff was just dense. “Warn Liam, of course.”

“And if he’s dead?”

Teldin spun about in rage. “He won’t be.” He snapped out the words through clenched teeth. “Now quiet. You don’t know what’s nearby.”

“Listen, human,” the giff pressed. “Give me a weapon-a dagger or one of the big knives. If we have to fight, I want to be ready.”

Teldin turned away as he spoke. “Why should I trust you?” he challenged.

“Because you’re a groundling farmer and I am a warrior of the giff,” Gomja answered plainly. Another might have made the words boastful, but from him it was a statement of fact. “If I meant to kill you, I could do it now. I could’ve killed you while you slept.”

Teldin bit his lip. The giff was right, but knowing that did not make his decision any easier. Finally he stopped, undid one of the giff’s knives, and passed it over to the alien.

Drawing the blade and inspecting it, Gomja pronounced, “Now I can fight. I only wish another of my people were here.”

Teldin, already moving again grunted with irritation. The creature talked too much, as far as he was concerned.

“If I fight valorously, who will know?” the giff explained, mistaking the exclamation for interest. “If we win, another giff could testify about my bravery. Then I could wear a tattoo of my victory with pride. If I loose, he could tell the others how I died gloriously in battle.” Gomja followed the smaller human, bulling his way through the underbrush. When Teldin did not answer, the giff at last gave up talking.

Dawn’s light was brushing over the rooftops of the buildings just as they reached the farm. Liam’s place had been here for years and was by now a mismatched collection of a house and several outbuildings, all built of wood and stone and fine shingles. The fences were in good repair, and the stone walls were sturdy. A pigsty divided the barn from the main house, while to the other side of the house was a stone wall that marked the edge of the fields. Although not wise in the world, old Liam possessed a special knack for farming.

The dark shape of Liam’s house was silent. Cautiously, the giff led the way into the farmyard. Teldin had fearfully expected the farmhouse and barn to be ablaze, the sty shattered, and the crops trampled. Instead, there was no sign of the neogi, or that they had yet arrived.

Relieved, Teldin moved to step past the giff. Just as he was about to take the lead, Gomja grabbed Teldin’s shoulder and pulled him back. “Should the doors be open?” he asked softly.

Teldin stopped short and scrutinized the outlines of the buildings. “Which doors?”

“Over there, and there,” Gomja replied, first pointing to the barn and then the farmhouse.

Teldin suddenly felt cold. Liam was a good farmer, too smart to let his livestock roam loose at night. “No. His cows would get out,” he said hoarsely, his throat choking up. Teldin stepped briskly through the tufted meadow. Dew splattered off the long foxtail stems.

Just beyond the corral fence was a damp shape. At first Teldin thought it was a pig nestled into the wallow, then the smell of raw meat started to come clear to his senses. “No!” he shouted and sprinted to the corral fence.

In a far corner he found a carcass, with bared bones dangling strings of hide and meat. Fence posts and walls glistened wetly in the growing dawn. Teldin’s foot kicked a fleshy lump. It squelched under his boot, and the farmer leaped back, crashing into the giffs rock-hard chest.

“The hogs,” Teldin offered in a hoarse voice. The dark corpses, huddled in the corners of the sty, were clearly not alive. The farmer gulped back his sudden disgust. “Neogi!”

“It would seem so, sir.” Gomja’s small eyes were wide, filled with the horrible wonder at what had happened here. “The veterans of my platoon said the neogi liked their kills fresh.”

“Kills,” Teldin echoed. ‘Quickly, the house!” Without waiting for the giff, Teldin whirled and sprinted through the muck of the sty. Caution abandoned, he charged toward the house, the cutlass in his hand flashing wildly in the dawn light. Behind him, thudding footsteps echoed between house and barn as Gomja trailed after, unable to keep pace with the human’s wild rush.

Teldin ran through the open doorway of Liam’s house. A horrid shadow leaped out of a corner. With a howl and wild scream, Teldin spun about and swung the cutlass with two hands, chopping through the intangible shape to bury the blade into the wood of the jamb like an axe. The blow sent painful vibrations through his arms. Tearing away a chunk of the wood, Teldin turned back to face the enemy, only to find that it was his own harmless shadow, the play of light and dark from a small fire in a hearth on the other side of the room.

Outside, Gomja stopped short of the doorway, its frame tiny compared to his great bulk. Stooping and twisting sideways, the giff carefully squeezed into the room. Inside, his seven-foot bulk just scraped the ceiling.

Teldin’s heart failed as he looked about the parlor. The furniture was in shambles, overturned and broken. Blood was smeared across the floor, splattered over the hearth, and ran in streaks down the overturned table. It gleamed red and brown in the warm yellow light of the fire. Frantically, Teldin tore through the room, but there were no bodies among the mess.

Another doorway stood in the far wall. Teldin knew from his many visits to Liam’s that it led to where the family slept, the only other room of the house. The doorjamb to that room was soaked, like the floor, with wet reds and browns.

Choking on fear and rage, Teldin slowly walked forward. He clutched the cutlass with both hands and held it just before his stomach, the blade jutting outward like the prow of a ship. Even held so firmly, the tip wobbled and wavered. Try as he might, Teldin was unable to stop his hands from shaking. Gomja loomed behind him, the giff forcing his way past the overturned furniture.

From the doorway, Teldin and Gomja cast hulking shadows across the floor and far wall, partially blotting out the shapes in the room. Rays of the morning sun barely gleamed through a dirty window covered in oilskin. The bedroom floor was a jagged landscape: broken bedposts, slats, shattered chests. Among the jutting profiles were rounded contours draped limply over the sharper forms.

Teldin shook as he stood in the doorway, unable to make himself go any farther. The air was warm and thick with the smell of blood. Flies buzzed in the shadows. ‘Too late,” Teldin choked out. “There’s no point. I waited too long.” The young farmer sagged by the doorway, the cutlass drooping in his limp hands.

Unable to think of a comforting word to say, the giff squeezed past the human. His ears brushed the rough beams of the ceiling, so he walked half-hunched into the room. With exaggerated caution, Gomja knelt to examine the closest shape, gingerly pulling aside the thick quilt that concealed it. A swarm of flies flew noisily away. The quilt was warm and wet, heavy with blood. Underneath, Gomja could see a body, tinged red in the window’s weak light. It had been a woman.

“Oh, gods, Eloise.” Teldin let the stifled words escape. Teldin knew he had seen worse in the war among the fields of dead, but these people were his friends, his father’s and grandfather’s friends. Teldin slowly got to his feet, then moved to check the other bodies.

It took the giff longer to regain his composure. His face was ill and hollow, a look Teldin remembered on raw recruits after their first battle. Unsteady on his feet, the giff joined Teldin in the search. A brief look was all either needed. The pair hastily bundled the bodies in the bloodstained blankets.