David Cook - Beyong the Moons

“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 ftom 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.”