Friends (2013) - Adams, Robert

But once more was Chief Von’s reputation for diplomacy proven merited. “A fine jest,” said he, “and one you will no doubt add when you make this tale your own. For the nonce, I think we’d appreciate the uninterrupted flow of Flatear’s narrative, eh?”

With long, pink tongue licking his chops, Flatear turned his baleful gaze from his least favorite bard in all the world and resumed mindspeaking: “When his body was covered in the putrid solution, he spread what was left across the frost-covered ground in the direction of the bear’s cave; then we gathered all the leaves that we could find—I still can taste the dry flavor—and Von lay upon the ground. We covered him with the leaves! Then we waited to greet the wind—and it obliged us by blowing in the direction of the cave. 1 held back, out of sight and scent, ready to help when need be.

“That old bear was as hungry for Von’s appetizer as were we for him. With a carelessness borne of hope that he was creeping up on a lone wolf, the bear walked straight toward the hiding place.”

There was a low, appreciative murmuring from those assembled. Most knew that Flatear and Von had had adventures together before they came to prominence with the forces of Sir Gercys. Some had heard this story before, but all were entranced at the description of their chief’s daring.

“One wrong step from that big four-paws and this clan would never have known the guidance of a sensible leader, brothers. Von had spread his wolf scent with care, so as to guide the bear’s movements. When the bulk of his adversary was directly over the trap, he struck with that very knife you see at his side now. 1 hurried to join the kill.” As Flatear was the swiftest prairiecat of Von’s clan, none doubted the speed with which this was accomplished. “I needn’t have bothered. With one straight thrust of that long knife, he pierced the grizzly’s heart, and his one danger remaining was to roll clear before two tons of bear flesh fell into a pool of its own hot blood! That’s an act of bravery you don’t see every day, wandering bard. If you sing of that, see that you tell it truly.” Noplis had nothing else to say that night but for repeated thanks at the generous offerings of food he received despite his less than successful showing. At first, he felt some degree of resentment at the brusque prairiecat, but as he thought upon it he came to agree that his critic had a point. There was no substitute for the proximity of a subject. It wasn’t that the bard had not faced danger before-—almost impossible not to do in these perilous times—but that when danger loomed near, it was his habit to find matters demanding his immediate attention at a further remove. So accomplished was he at running that it had once been suggested that he might be of immeasurable value as a messenger, but when considering the brief life span offered by that profession, he concluded that he should apply his abilities to the more demanding rigors of the storyteller’s art.

The one trouble with excessive caution, of course, is that the world pays no heed to the plan. How could Noplis have foreseen that the very next day he would be caught in the cataclysm of an earthquake because of insane machinations by a few Witchmen? Afterward, Noplis would have to agree that firsthand experience adds a dimension of verisimilitude to one’s poetry, but at the time itself, the only thought in his head would be a raw animal urge to survive at any cost.

It began when the earth shook. That part was bad enough, but what bothered Noplis the most was that the horizon he was observing to his left suddenly wasn’t there any longer. The ground was shaking badly by then. Unable to flee, stomach turning over, Noplis prayed that the world return to normal. Instead of tranquillity, he was rewarded by fireballs that tore through the sky in his direction. His instinct to throw himself to the ground was thwarted by the ground moving away—or at least so it seemed, as the earth crumpled beneath his feet. One white-hot rock, the size of four horses, came close enough that he felt the heat on the back of his neck before the stone plunged into a nearby stream. The steam resulting from that immersion drifted in Noplis’ direction, reducing his visibility. This was just as well, as he had no desire to see more—but the hot mist made it difficult to breathe.

By now, the shaking of the ground was at its peak. Somehow Noplis avoided broken bones, although he almost fell into a crevice that yawned open a few feet from where he was trying to maintain his balance. In the midst of chaos, soaring above the cacophony of roars and rumbles below, and the whooshing of rocks above, was a veritable symphony of mindspeak. The bard was one who had the gift developed to the point where he could farspeak. The telepathic cries for help added an unusual counterpoint to the earthquake: Real voices could not be heard for more than a few seconds, constantly drowned out by the grating of stone on stone.

After several attempts to stand, Noplis finally gave up, electing to remain flat upon the ground. He was too tired to get up again. Idly he wondered if the earthquake was a punishment for the previous night’s artistic inadequacy. If so, it didn’t have a very good aim.

The ordeal finally ended. Opening his eyes, Noplis discovered that he was alone. Not a tree was standing as far as he could see. Near at hand was a huge slab of basalt and granite, with streaks of red and brown slashing across it—mineral deposits that made him think that the earth was bleeding. The air was full of dust, enough to make him cough as he rose woozily to his feet.

And there was something else amiss. He didn’t even notice it at first, but when he did, it sent shivers down his back. The symphony of mindspeak was over. He heard not a note, not a word, not a yell. There were no voices.

His head felt as though it had been split in twain. Even so, he called out . . . and the sound of his own voice hurt his temples. For many lonely minutes he cried out, alone. Then came a welcome, mindspoken greeting: “Stay where you are. I can reach you.”

Right away, he knew who it was. His fellow survivor was Flatear.

Whenever he was bored, the Judge would look at himself in a mirror. In fact, he kept mirrors expressly for that purpose. Today he used a round one, with a yellow stain across the top, and one crack running diagonally across the pitted surface. It was one of his best mirrors.

The wrinkled face returned his gaze with large, watery eyes, the color of an eel—his healthiest feature. The protuberance extending from his right cheekbone was still growing, almost imperceptibly lengthening since last he’d taken inventory. It curved over the pulpy indentation where once his nose had been, almost seeming to be a replacement for that organ. He referred to the growth as a beak when he was around the Ganiks, pleased that his head had a birdlike appearance. That, combined with the feathers growing from his thin neck to his twisted shoulder blades, completed the image by which he convinced them that he was an emissary of their god, Ndaindjerd. The absence of a nose had proven a positive boon where that stinking rabble of ghouls was concerned. How convenient for him that they would not eat bird or beast.

As for the rest of the Judge’s visage, it was a catalogue of the putrescent, scars of old diseases making a cobweb pattern across his forehead as if they were strings to a mask. Blue-gray flesh hung upon the skull without softening the contours beneath. He had no chin to speak of, the ears were barely noticeable lumps, and his mouth was the worst part: a few lonesome teeth, sharp as fangs, at odd angles to the ugly purple color of the gums. Yes, thought the Judge, you're looking good.

He thought of himself as Lucifer, fallen from the Center, the ultimate renegade of the Witchmen. He liked that label for his old associates precisely because they hated it. Witches. Across the sad and empty centuries, he had come to loathe his colleagues far more than he did their various enemies. The world the Center would recreate was not for him, any more than was the world that did exist. So he had aspired to something else that would be entirely his. Experimenting in secret with a genetic project of his own, he had secured the services of an assistant named Davidson, a biochemistry man.