shady trees, and there, in relative silence, we made lunch and rested for a while. They all thought I was still suffering from some kind of trauma. Each of them circled me warily like dogs gauging a bear. It was starting to get on my nerves.
“You did fine,” said Mithos for no good reason.
“Thanks,” I muttered, wishing they could find something else to talk about.
“Doing all right, Will?” asked Orgos.
“Look,” I blurted suddenly, “I’m not used to being attacked or to watching people get killed, all right? Sorry. I’ve thrown the odd punch in my time, even the odd chair, but shooting people in the back is a new one on me. I realize that you lot have been skewering passersby since before you could walk, but some of us haven’t. Most of the people I know actually get through the day without complete strangers trying to kill them. You seem to think it perfectly normal that you get attacked by bunches of homicidal maniacs. It’s not! It rarely happens, except to people like you. You’re some kind of disaster magnet. Everywhere you go, death and destruction alight on your wagon like a pair of bloody homing pigeons, and you don’t seem to think it’s odd. Let me just say it again: It is odd. Bloody odd, and it is likely to have rather severe effects on those who aren’t used to climbing over corpses to get to the bathroom. I have, however, recovered from the experience. I am now perfectly all right and you can stop treating me like some kind of wounded horse. See? Just get on with your jolly old adventuring and next time we have to slaughter a few people you can trust me to keep my upper lip stiff as a board.”
There was a momentary silence that felt particularly empty after my rather shrill explosion.
“Done?” asked Mithos, looking at the ground.
“Done,” I said.
SCENE XII
The Desert
W e’d chosen our lunch spot well, for I think we saw no more trees that day. The scent of wild herbs never left our nostrils but the heather disappeared, and though the gorse persisted, it seemed to get thinner, until it was just a tangled mass of brownish thorns. We were on the edge of the Hrof wastes by four o’clock and I was startled to look up and see huge vultures, grey and pink as dead flesh, the fingers of their wings spread wide as they soared their slow circles above us. I watched them to take my mind off the Empire patrol that was likely to appear on the road at any minute.
“Those things give me the willies,” muttered Orgos. We had barely spoken since my last little rant. “Great winged rats,” he went on. “In the morning you see them sitting in trees with their wings hanging in front of them, like dead men in rags. You can feel them waiting for you to die. They belong here in the Hrof. This is their territory.”
Well, that was nice to know. The vultures drifted slowly overhead and watched us with the critical gaze of someone inspecting a forkful of pork pie whose origins had been called into question. It was disconcerting, but somehow not entirely inappropriate. The Empire, some of my old acting companions at the Eagle, and, most recently, Renthrette, had always regarded me as something resembling carrion. If I died of exposure in the next ten minutes, the world wouldn’t miss me and the vultures would get a meal. I could picture the great scrawny birds squatting on my remains, spitting gristle and complaining to themselves about the poor quality of the meat coming through these days. . . .
Orgos was right. This was their land, and the only way to avoid finishing up lightly roasted and serving six was to get the hell out of here as soon as possible. The vultures circled on anyway, smugly sure that they’d be dining shortly, tucking into Bill the Succulent any day now. I shot them a defiant scowl, but riding into a desert wasn’t the best way of staying alive, and given the day’s events and the dubious nature of my traveling companions, I could sort of see their point.
On each
“You did fine,” said Mithos for no good reason.
“Thanks,” I muttered, wishing they could find something else to talk about.
“Doing all right, Will?” asked Orgos.
“Look,” I blurted suddenly, “I’m not used to being attacked or to watching people get killed, all right? Sorry. I’ve thrown the odd punch in my time, even the odd chair, but shooting people in the back is a new one on me. I realize that you lot have been skewering passersby since before you could walk, but some of us haven’t. Most of the people I know actually get through the day without complete strangers trying to kill them. You seem to think it perfectly normal that you get attacked by bunches of homicidal maniacs. It’s not! It rarely happens, except to people like you. You’re some kind of disaster magnet. Everywhere you go, death and destruction alight on your wagon like a pair of bloody homing pigeons, and you don’t seem to think it’s odd. Let me just say it again: It is odd. Bloody odd, and it is likely to have rather severe effects on those who aren’t used to climbing over corpses to get to the bathroom. I have, however, recovered from the experience. I am now perfectly all right and you can stop treating me like some kind of wounded horse. See? Just get on with your jolly old adventuring and next time we have to slaughter a few people you can trust me to keep my upper lip stiff as a board.”
There was a momentary silence that felt particularly empty after my rather shrill explosion.
“Done?” asked Mithos, looking at the ground.
“Done,” I said.
SCENE XII
The Desert
W e’d chosen our lunch spot well, for I think we saw no more trees that day. The scent of wild herbs never left our nostrils but the heather disappeared, and though the gorse persisted, it seemed to get thinner, until it was just a tangled mass of brownish thorns. We were on the edge of the Hrof wastes by four o’clock and I was startled to look up and see huge vultures, grey and pink as dead flesh, the fingers of their wings spread wide as they soared their slow circles above us. I watched them to take my mind off the Empire patrol that was likely to appear on the road at any minute.
“Those things give me the willies,” muttered Orgos. We had barely spoken since my last little rant. “Great winged rats,” he went on. “In the morning you see them sitting in trees with their wings hanging in front of them, like dead men in rags. You can feel them waiting for you to die. They belong here in the Hrof. This is their territory.”
Well, that was nice to know. The vultures drifted slowly overhead and watched us with the critical gaze of someone inspecting a forkful of pork pie whose origins had been called into question. It was disconcerting, but somehow not entirely inappropriate. The Empire, some of my old acting companions at the Eagle, and, most recently, Renthrette, had always regarded me as something resembling carrion. If I died of exposure in the next ten minutes, the world wouldn’t miss me and the vultures would get a meal. I could picture the great scrawny birds squatting on my remains, spitting gristle and complaining to themselves about the poor quality of the meat coming through these days. . . .
Orgos was right. This was their land, and the only way to avoid finishing up lightly roasted and serving six was to get the hell out of here as soon as possible. The vultures circled on anyway, smugly sure that they’d be dining shortly, tucking into Bill the Succulent any day now. I shot them a defiant scowl, but riding into a desert wasn’t the best way of staying alive, and given the day’s events and the dubious nature of my traveling companions, I could sort of see their point.
On each
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