9


    The weather took a sudden turn for the worse, with low, scudding clouds, gusting wind and light drizzle obscuring his vision and drowning out sounds. Most scents were masked by the rain as well, making it risky to travel.


    Nameless disliked the damp; staring pointedly at him, then stalking off to groom its fur beneath bowers of tangled wood. Under such foul conditions, the scrubby landscape looked like an etching on tarnished silver. Smelled like corrosion and mud.


    He stopped at last beneath a rocky overhang. Not quite deep enough to be called a cave, but reasonably sheltered. Part of a long-gone sea, to judge by the shells and sharks'' teeth he found. Often occupied, as gauged by its many scratched pictures and words. Better yet, dry enough to build a small fire in, which he did, once Nameless was settled and the den had been thoroughly scouted for possible danger.


    Turned out to be safe and dry. Clean, too, except for a drift of dried leaves. It had been warded, once. The silvery runes still twisted and hung in the air. He could see and… without thinking about it too deeply… strengthen them.


    On a shelf chiseled into the back wall, he found dried food in strange packages. The material was odd and uncuttable, but it tore easily once you took hold of a certain tab. Each bundle was printed with sigils for safety and freshness.


    The food inside was hard bread and dried fruit, along with a bar of sweetened kelab and… true wonder… the makings for a dark, fragrant beverage, best served hot: daybrew. He knew the stuff, craved it deeply and made it first off, sharing the food with Nameless.


    Relative paradise, but he was not truly secure here. Sooner or later the fire and smells would lure predators. For now, thought, warded and snug, it was home. Then, one more surprise. Along with all of the pictures and words inscribed on its walls, someone had etched a game board onto a raised bit of floor.


    There were three rows, seven long, of gouged-in small holes, with three shallow cups…"havens" he thought of them as… spaced just so; one at either end, and one in the center. All that was wanted to play were pieces and… he fumbled a bit for the concept… cubes with markings, gemmed dots on each face. Dice.


    There were many ways to play, but the simplest, child-way was "Chase". Seeing these things brought it back, so he selected a red stone from the floor for himself. Next found a pearly shell for Nameless. His magical pockets produced a trio of ivory dice set with red gems. Not spelled, either. Whatever he''d been, whoever he''d failed to defend, he would not cheat at dueling or dice.


    Turning to look at the marten (cleaning its whiskers and fur near their small fire) he said,


    "We play for great stakes, Nameless. If I win, you cease scrabbling about and settle down for the entire night. If you win… I will go hunting for fish."


    He could do that, he felt; shoot fish with a bow, giving him something to eat besides apples. Nameless yawned, finished attending to the base of its tail, then waddled off to explore the back of their shelter. Hunting for midden-sand, probably.


    "I shall roll for you," said the wanderer, beginning their game. Simple. Child-version. The two pieces started out in the low haven together, until rolling a three freed them to take to the board.


    After that, numbers rolled dictated the number of hole-spaces crossed, but not how you crossed them. Forward, sideways or diagonal were all possible, depending on whether you chose to run like a hare, evade or entrap.


    See, landing on the same space as the enemy would send them back to low haven (or to the central one, if they''d already passed it). Then, they would have to expend their turn rolling and praying for three. But, all was not lost, because getting into the top haven could only happen by rolling the precise number of spaces between. Too few, and you waited there, while your enemy crept up behind. Too many, and you overshot, ending up back at the bottom.


    He''d played a lot, he sensed, with… names and faces slid away; too briefly glimpsed to react to. Maybe on purpose.


    Here and now, he positioned the red stone and bright shell, then reached across to tap the dice against Nameless.


    "You can go first," he said, generously. The gods'' own luck was with that wretched animal, who rolled a three on its very first try. Not so its wandering friend, who wasted four turns stuck in the low haven.


    Playing as Nameless, he opted for straightforward flight, crossing as much ground as possible. Playing for himself, he stalked; meaning to catch and "kill" the enemy game piece. Worse luck, he was a very good player, both of him, escaping his own ambushes several times. Sent pebble and shell back to the havens for healing without pity or remorse when he did hit, striking from cover (sideways) or running the enemy down (forward). Sometimes even "encircled". Complexly, if you rolled four or above and were near enough, you could land once in every space surrounding the enemy piece. Then, they were encircled; trapped in place for four endless turns. You could then kill or just leave them there; ensnared and cursing your treachery.


    Long and the short of it was, Nameless won, achieving high haven on its third try. He would have accused the masked scoundrel of cheating, except they''d been using the same dice, and he''d rolled for them both.


    "We''ll play again," he threatened. "Directly I''ve come back from hunting."


    Put away pieces and dice, scratching "friend" on the wall and adding a win-stroke below it. Then, he set off to get dinner.


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    The sky hadn''t let up, making cover and caution imperative. Left his bow in its pocket and took up a fish-spear, instead. Smoke-stepped past clearings or skirted their edges, heading down the land''s gradual slope. If there was water… a river or lake, say… he''d find it cupped in a valley someplace, so that''s where he headed.


    It was clear that a terrible war had been fought in this place, in the time beyond myth. There were several crumpled, rusted-out giants mired deep in the ground. The land itself had been churned into peaks and troughs like a frozen ocean. Grassy now, fuzzed over with brush, but still badly scarred. Great broken arrows of metal lay in pieces, their segments supporting a forest of saplings and vines.


    He peered into one of these, unable to square what he saw with anything at all that he knew. Best he could come up with was "magically animated metal ship". It was hollow inside, but so was a seashell. Didn''t mean nothing had lived there, to start with. Just that the creatures were long gone, now.


    Mostly, there was nothing to learn or to salvage within. Too much time and too many scavengers had already done proper work there. The scents were complex, but mainly the leavings of weather and wildlife. Leaves rattled and dripped. Rain hissed in through holes in the roof. Odd shapes, covered in ivy, littered the floor.


    Only one thing, a sort of wheeled assembler, reacted to him at all. About knee-high and prism-shaped, it emerged as he ducked into a decaying chamber near the bow. Uttered a wavering beep, then lurched halfway out of an alcove in the curved hull.


    As that giant armor had done earlier, the automaton jetted a shower of glowing runes. Then it stopped short, trapped by intrusive vines and what looked like a twisted chair.


    Cautiously, he tapped the construct with the butt of his fish-spear. It clicked and beeped a few times in response. Then, with a pained-sounding rasp, its front surface ratcheted downward.


    There was something inside the body cavity, he saw. Pretty, but baffling. Took a good look after lifting the object out of its cabinet, but grew no wiser. Didn''t even know what questions to ask about something so utterly foreign.


    About half the length of his thumb and roughly cylindrical, it had colorful inset bands on a grey background. Not carved and not natural, it was oddly formed. Very hard, very smooth, nearly weightless, and filled with tiny flashes of brightness that swarmed to the warmth of his hand, tingling slightly. Its antecedents seemed to be blood-of-the-earth. Fire-tar, hardened, somehow.


    He tucked the strange object away in a magical pocket. As for that oddly evolved assembler, it had used up all that remained of its hoarded strength, and no spell of his could correct that. He knew not the source of its power, which didn''t appear to be magic. Aloud, he said,


    "You have fulfilled your task, watcher. I do not know where you would have this object delivered, or if any remain to accept it, but I pledge to find out." Surely, in the forest city, someone would offer advice, and any goal was a reason to keep breathing.


    A thought and a brief surge of magical force removed the dirt and corrosion of ages, so at least the construct looked whole, again. Why it had responded to him was another mystery, except that it had to be something he was rather than something he carried.


    Nothing else happened of note, except when he started a three-tailed fox from its lair, sending it bolting out of an ancient blast-hole, a ragged wound in the sky ship''s port side.


    He left after that, wondering at the awful clash that had pitched titans of metal against mighty ships of the air, marring the landscape for eons. Wondering, too... had either side actually won?


    Once outside, he set off downslope, again, picking his careful way through sodden bracken and scrub. Did at last find a trickle of water. The brook was too small for much bow-fishing, but following its course led him down to a shallow and reedy lake. Surrounded by scruffy willows, it boasted a lot of woody cover and structure for fish. Its surface was pocked and fuzzy with rainfall. Ideal, really, as the fish would be very distracted by everything washing down with the stream or blown out of those stunted old trees.


    He waded right in and got straight to work, not minding the drizzly rain. Sometimes with the spear, sometimes with his bow, he caught blue-fin, striped bass and dragon-head. More than enough for several dinners. Hated to leave, because working the shore near a fallen tree was so very successful, and because physical effort masked a stripped mind. It was also distracting. He stayed too long, wading like a heron as the sky cleared overhead.


    Then someone spoke. Hailed him in the same twittering language the witch and the villagers had used. Startled, he escape-spelled reflexively, only had nowhere to go except back to the stream.


    Again, the person called out, waving an arm. Short, like everyone else he''d seen in this place, with ears that were barely pointed at all. Brown haired and cloaked, with his hood thrown back and a broad smile on his face.


    "**** ** ***** ******* !"the fellow chirped, indicating a heavy canvas pack at his feet. Then, when stealthy retreat and a headshake was the only response,"*** ******, ***?"


    Heart pounding, breath coming fast, the wanderer backed still further upstream. Then the wind shifted, bringing with it the person''s scent. There was little magic, much travel, spicy food and general weariness there… but no taint of illusion or witchcraft. The fellow smelled more like a peddler, bearing the scent of strange places and folk.


    He hesitated, ready to plunge off into the brush and smoke-step away, but terribly needing supplies. The (maybe) peddler pointed at his own chest, saying something like: "Hanish. Hah-neesh." Then he extended a hand, miming a question with lifted eyebrows and half-smile.


    No. Took another step backward, shaking his head. No name, and no past that he knew or wanted to claim. The thought brought on genuine panic.


    Seeming to sense this, the peddler lifted both hands palm outward and twittered an entire chorus'' worth of response. Spoke gently, then spread out a green pad and began laying things out that he drew from his pack. It was the food that did the trick, along with a bundle of fishing arrows.


    There were coins in his magical pockets. He''d seen them. But the ones he first offered caused Hanish to nearly fall over, rapidly shaking his head.


    Right, then. No mithral, earth-heart or gold. There were coppers, though. A few of those and a silver penny would buy up all that he''d placed on that felted green pad, the peddler indicated.


    They transacted business without speech or actual hand-sign, although Hanish kept trying to teach him gibberish words. Buying it all was simpler than bargaining would have been, so he took every bit, getting arrows, bread, dried meat, powdered spices and something like daybrew in return for a few small coins.


    Pocketed it all away, to Hanish''s open amazement. Question after question the peddler asked, seeming eager; intensely excited. Got no response but a headshake, at first, and soon not even that, because…


    How could you translate: Bearer of darkness, flame and ill fortune? How to say: One month and two days of life since waking from stone. Slave to a murderous witch, friend to a scavenging marten, waker of ancient battle-ghosts?


    Over and over, Hanish pointed east, saying "Oatark," or something like that. "Oatark. Aryu."


    The peddler looked hopeful, but those hints didn''t work. Couldn''t. He was headed west, to a forest city he knew had to be there. Bowed his thanks to the merchant, then spell-stepped from sight, as fast as magic would take him.