David Cook - Beyong the Moons

Teldin remembered that when Kalaman was freed from the siege of the draconians, the avenue had been a bleak and cheerless swath, littered with the camps of troops and the homeless. In many ways, it had looked like the park he and Gomja had stumbled into two nights ago. There were the same collections of hovels, the same stripped trees. even the sad and desperate people. Teldin wondered how many in that park had once lived along this green avenue.

“Sir, who is this Vandoorm anyway?” Gomja asked as they hurried down the street. The giffs voice was muffled by the folds of cloth that covered his head. “Is he a brave commander? I should know before I sign on with him."

The lanky farmer briefly considered not answering-or even lying to get the giff in trouble-but chose against it. The giff might be a nuisance, but he did not deserve that kind of treatment, ‘Vandoorm’s an old soldier, and brave enough, I imagine. I never served under him, so I wouldn’t really know.”

“Then how do you know him? I assumed you fought under him in the war.” Gomja struggled with the blanket trying to keep it from slipping off his ears.

Teldin reached up and helped readjust the cloth as they walked. “I met him during the war-at Palanthas when I first came to join up. I was a raw youth-” Teidin stopped to pick his words somewhat carefully, remembering that Trooper Gomja was only sixteen, “Anyway I met Vandoorm in Palanthas. He showed me the way things worked in the army-kept me out of trouble.”

“He sounds experienced,” the giff offered.

“That he certainly is-also profane, bawdy, and a few other things besides.” Teldin picked up the pace, worried that he might miss the morning rendezvous. The giff bustled to keep alongside the human, effectively ending their conversation

“Good morn, Moore!” called out a voice as they neared the gate. The brawny Vandoorm stepped free of the taller men and horses clustered around the fortress wall. “You finally made it. I always thought farmers got up early in the morning, but maybe farming makes you soft, eh?” The squat mercenary’s jibe was good-natured. Clapping Teldin on the shoulder, the shorter man turned back toward the riders and, with a wave of his hand, boastfully introduced them. This is my squadron, the toughest fighters in all of Solamnia.”

Teldin looked over the twenty or so men who formed Vandoorm’s war band. They were unmistakably mercenaries; some sat tall and proud, others slunk in their saddles, but all were marked by a hard edge in their stares, suspicious eyes chiseled out of stone. Each man was outfitted for battle. There were lances adorned with tattered pennons, shields painted with fanciful designs, and unmatched pieces of armor dyed in brilliant colors and gilt with silver and brass. Swords poked out from under cloaks, bows and quivers hung on the horses’ flanks, spears fit in sockets at the sides of saddles, while other implements of war gave each man an individual and unique armory.

Afew of the riders stood out from the already distinctive group and Teldin took note of them. One, sporting an eyepatch and a mane of black hair, carried two great knives cross-belted over his chain mail shirt. Another, dressed only in simple browns, studied the newcomers as he waxed the string of his long bow. These two, in particular, seemed to stand out from the rest of the group.

Just as Teldin studied them, the score of riders carefully looked the farmer over. There was no hatred or rancor in their looks, only cool contempt bred by their survival instincts. Finally Vandoorm broke the spell. “We are ready to ride, Moore. Meschior will get a horse for you while you say good-bye to your. . companion.” Vandoorm nodded toward the giff.

“He wants to come along,” Teldin answered tersely, stepping closer to the giff.

The mercenary captain stopped and looked at Teldin. “That’s not what you said last night,” Vandoorm replied in surprise.

“Things change,” Teldin answered with a shrug. “Now he wants to come with me.”

The shorter man puckered his mouth in thought, clearly a little skeptical of the new arrangement. “Come here,” he finally ordered the enormous, cloaked stranger facing him.

“Yes, sir!” Gomja boomed from within the folds that still covered his face. In true military manner, the giff briskly stepped forward and snapped rigidly to attention. “Trooper Gomja requesting permission to sign on, sir!”

Looking around the giff, Teldin smiled as Vandoorm arched an eyebrow in surprise. At five feet tall, the captain’s nose barely reached the middle of Gomja’s chest. “Can you use a sword?” Vandoorm finally asked.

‘‘Yes, sir!’’

“Have you fought in battle?”

Gomja hesitated for a moment, then decided the Penumbra's crash counted-sort of. “Yes, sir.”

“Have you kill a man?”

Looking dead ahead, avoiding Vandoorm’s gaze, Gomja answered, “No, sir.” The giff stood waiting for more questions, but Vandoorm just let him wait. Instead the captain slowly circled the giff, noting the pudgy, blue-gray hands, the thick legs, and the wide shoulders.

“I do not know, Teldin. For you I say yes, but first I will ask my lieutenants,” Vandoorm commented as he stopped beside his old friend. “Brun, Meschior, we talk.” Walking away from Teldin, Vandoorm motioned for his two aides to join him. Teldin, not too surprised, noticed that it was the one-eyed man and the archer who joined their captain. The three held a quiet conversation, punctuated by stares at the giff and Teldin and a few sharply pointed fingers. Teldin could not hear what they said, but he guessed from their expressions that it was not going well. When the discussion ended, all three came over, Vandoorm in the lead.

“Like me, my lieutenants do not like this,” the bearded captain announced, talking mainly to Teldin. “He looks strong, but why does he hide his face?”

“I told you last night what the Dark Queen did to him,” Teldin quickly offered before the giff might say something else. “It draws too much attention in town, so it’s better if he stays covered up.” Gomja, learning his part, nodded in agreement.

The answer wasn’t good enough for Vandoorm. “Show me your face,” he demanded, turning to the giff. Gomja turned to ask Teldin, but all the farmer could answer with was a shrug. Reluctantly, the giff slowly opened the folds of the blanket. As he pulled back the cloth just enough for them to see, Vandoorm, Brun, and Meschior pressed close like boys eager to peek into a tavern wench’s bedroom. Getting a view of Gomja’s face, Vandoorm’s eyes widened slightly. The gaze of the other two remained as hard and unreadable as before. Finally, the captain spoke in slow measure. "I see why you cover him up. He would draw attention in town." He glanced back at Gomja, sizing up the giff up in a new light. With hardly a look at his aides, Vandoorm casually added, "Good fighter, I think. He comes. Get the men ready to ride." This last was addressed to his lieutenants.

The mercernary leader turned to Teldin and clapped him on the back. "I do this because you are like a son, Tel. On the trip, you'll pay me back, I am sure." He broke into a laugh on seeing the puzzled, panicked look that crossed the farmer's face. "You take care of my horses, I take care of you. Come now, let's get you a horse." Grabbing Teldin by the elbow, Vandoorm led the farmer to the waiting company for instructions. Gomja, pleased with the results, trailed after the two.

They were quickly underway, but soon the ride became monotonous, just the steady plodding of horse hooves over the dusty road. Even walking alongside, Gomja was able to keep pace fairly well. Outside the city, the giff did away with the hot and stifling blanket over his face. The first appearance of the blue-gray monstrosity in their midst caused considerable consternation amoung the men at first, but they quicky concealed their surprise and curiosity, except for the occasional watchful glances from the corners of their eyes.