anything edible. He did not intend to share.
The Bull kicked the little fire apart. “I said…”
Haroun slipped a knife into the back of the Bull’s right calf. He sliced down, then sideways. At first the Bull did not feel pain enough to understand. He tried to turn. His leg did not cooperate. Haroun leaned out of the path of his collapse.
The Bull roared, tried to get up. Haroun’s blade entered his right eye. “Breathe without leave and I’ll take the other, too. Your old friends will have great sport with a blind Bull.”
The Beetle tried something stupid. Haroun disarmed him. He settled beside the Bull, nursing partially severed fingers.
“Would you like to spend your remaining days dependent on the good will of the Beetle?” The Bull abused his partner with only slightly less vigor than he did everyone else. “No? You’re less stupid than I thought. I’ll leave you one eye, then. I’ll take it first time you do something to offend me, though.”
The Bull looked into Haroun’s eyes. He saw no mercy there. He did see a dark future for those who angered the man. He eased back, rose slowly, let the Beetle help him limp away.
One of the others said, “I remember you.” He said nothing more. He lowered his head, went to sleep.
The second man acknowledged events with a nod and a shudder. He placed curds of dried camel dung on the resurrected fire, then lay down on his left side.
Haroun noticed changes next morning. Word had spread. His presence was acknowledged subtly everywhere. Had his fireside companion truly recognized him? If so, it was definitely time to leave. Most of the walking dead here had followed El Murid.
Did he dare reclaim his animals and gear? Would the stable keeper even deal with him now that he could not be distinguished from the sort of man he pretended to be?
Nothing developed, though, except the exchange of whispers amongst the lost. Haroun got the news himself three times. No one named a revenant champion from days gone by. The man from the fire had changed his mind or had not been believed. Either was convenient.
...
Haroun wakened suddenly. Someone had come too close. He sensed no malice, however. He feigned sleep, let the situation develop. He was seated against an adobe wall in a pool of shadow. Moonlight illuminated what could be seen through cracked eyelids. A breeze tumbled the skeleton of a brushy weed.
Someone settled to his right. The man smelled familiar. He would be the companion who never spoke.
Haroun waited.
A long time passed before the man whispered, “A courier came from Al Rhemish.” The man had trouble talking. He stammered. “He told the Sheyik’s night boy to gather fodder for twenty horses for four days.”
Someone would be coming out from the capital. Haroun could not be the reason. Megelin’s few incompetent shaghûns would waste no time spying on no-account towns awash in human flotsam. It likely meant only that a Royalist band would pass through on its way somewhere to make someone miserable.
Haroun did not respond. His companion did nothing to suggest that a response was necessary.
Next morning the Sheyik’s men came looking for day labor. Haroun joined the volunteers. Some went looking for fodder. Haroun was in the group set to cleaning the Sheyik’s stable and corral. He did not see the point, nor did he learn anything useful.
His companions cared not at all. Shifting horse manure or no, it was all the same. The slower they worked the longer they would be employed.
Haroun wandered off, vacant-eyed, as often as he dared. The Sheyik’s men would find him and bring him back to the corral. He learned nothing about the layout inside the adobe wall screening the Sheyik’s residence, which was a minor fortress built of mud brick.
Back behind his pitchfork, Haroun wondered why he felt compelled to study the place. Because someone had a notion that important things were about to happen? Or because of some unconscious premonition of his own?
He had those
The Bull kicked the little fire apart. “I said…”
Haroun slipped a knife into the back of the Bull’s right calf. He sliced down, then sideways. At first the Bull did not feel pain enough to understand. He tried to turn. His leg did not cooperate. Haroun leaned out of the path of his collapse.
The Bull roared, tried to get up. Haroun’s blade entered his right eye. “Breathe without leave and I’ll take the other, too. Your old friends will have great sport with a blind Bull.”
The Beetle tried something stupid. Haroun disarmed him. He settled beside the Bull, nursing partially severed fingers.
“Would you like to spend your remaining days dependent on the good will of the Beetle?” The Bull abused his partner with only slightly less vigor than he did everyone else. “No? You’re less stupid than I thought. I’ll leave you one eye, then. I’ll take it first time you do something to offend me, though.”
The Bull looked into Haroun’s eyes. He saw no mercy there. He did see a dark future for those who angered the man. He eased back, rose slowly, let the Beetle help him limp away.
One of the others said, “I remember you.” He said nothing more. He lowered his head, went to sleep.
The second man acknowledged events with a nod and a shudder. He placed curds of dried camel dung on the resurrected fire, then lay down on his left side.
Haroun noticed changes next morning. Word had spread. His presence was acknowledged subtly everywhere. Had his fireside companion truly recognized him? If so, it was definitely time to leave. Most of the walking dead here had followed El Murid.
Did he dare reclaim his animals and gear? Would the stable keeper even deal with him now that he could not be distinguished from the sort of man he pretended to be?
Nothing developed, though, except the exchange of whispers amongst the lost. Haroun got the news himself three times. No one named a revenant champion from days gone by. The man from the fire had changed his mind or had not been believed. Either was convenient.
...
Haroun wakened suddenly. Someone had come too close. He sensed no malice, however. He feigned sleep, let the situation develop. He was seated against an adobe wall in a pool of shadow. Moonlight illuminated what could be seen through cracked eyelids. A breeze tumbled the skeleton of a brushy weed.
Someone settled to his right. The man smelled familiar. He would be the companion who never spoke.
Haroun waited.
A long time passed before the man whispered, “A courier came from Al Rhemish.” The man had trouble talking. He stammered. “He told the Sheyik’s night boy to gather fodder for twenty horses for four days.”
Someone would be coming out from the capital. Haroun could not be the reason. Megelin’s few incompetent shaghûns would waste no time spying on no-account towns awash in human flotsam. It likely meant only that a Royalist band would pass through on its way somewhere to make someone miserable.
Haroun did not respond. His companion did nothing to suggest that a response was necessary.
Next morning the Sheyik’s men came looking for day labor. Haroun joined the volunteers. Some went looking for fodder. Haroun was in the group set to cleaning the Sheyik’s stable and corral. He did not see the point, nor did he learn anything useful.
His companions cared not at all. Shifting horse manure or no, it was all the same. The slower they worked the longer they would be employed.
Haroun wandered off, vacant-eyed, as often as he dared. The Sheyik’s men would find him and bring him back to the corral. He learned nothing about the layout inside the adobe wall screening the Sheyik’s residence, which was a minor fortress built of mud brick.
Back behind his pitchfork, Haroun wondered why he felt compelled to study the place. Because someone had a notion that important things were about to happen? Or because of some unconscious premonition of his own?
He had those
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