A Fray of Furies by A Van Wyck

Author:A Van Wyck [Wyck, A Van]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-10-31T22:00:00+00:00

* * *

“How long?” he asked in an undertone. They were walking the horses, screened from prying eyes by high crests and cantles.

“Two days. Maybe three,” Yoriana informed him.

“Eris Bolk spoke of sixty-six days…” he recalled skeptically.

“The gospel is more exacting,” she sniffed. “And contains star charts – more or less. Tonight, before moonrise, I’ll fix our position. Then we can plot an exact course to the oasis.”

“I don’t like this,” he told her. “Wandering off into the uncharted waste? Feels like suicide. Like how the old nomads used to do it. They, at least, really knew the desert. You want me to trust a maybe-fictional sun-worshipper’s mastery of the sand and stars.”

The priestess visibly bristled, “If it’s too much for your pagan constitution, you can stay. Only – how long until your next dose?”

He scowled. His symptoms’ onset was speeding. Each new moon, the elixir afforded less relief. At this rate, he’d be taking a dose once a week within the year. Once a day within two. He needed a permanent solution. Not a monthly draught.

“Where’s your vaunted modernist tolerance for other faiths?”

“It’s your arrogance that offends me, not your atheism.”

“Does not the sun shine from your empire’s humble bunghole?”

She flushed a ruddy red. “Enjoy these stolen slights, thief,” she seethed, mounting stiffly. “Your wit will doubtless keep you warm – when you’re languishing in the Dark Places!”

“I do some of my best work in the dark,” he protested at her back. A dozen paces distant, Neever looked up in inquiry. He feigned bafflement and the monk turned back to Garm:

“…and then, in the third year of the Skordian campaign....”

He turned a deaf ear. He’d been on the receiving end of Neever’s trove of fools’ gold before. The monk could talk non-stop and not drop a single nugget of personal history. Garm was almost as tightfisted. But then, her secret was easy to plumb. The way she kept checking their backtrail told him that whatever swelled her saddlebags, it had an angry owner out there somewhere.

He worried over what would happen to her, once he and the holy duo forsook the caravan. He doubted his comrades would countenance her further company. Not on their secret mission.

“Fighting again?” Neever reprimanded as he rode up.

“Small difference of opinion.”

“A deep, philosophical discussion, perhaps?”

“A shallow, sarcastic one, actually,” he griped.

“More’s the pity. Some sophistry would do you good.”

“Sophistry?” Garm queried the unfamiliar word.

“Pointless talking,” he supplied.

“Certainly not,” the monk huffed. “It is the singular art of subtle and insincere argument, meant to strengthen logic and reason.”

“Pointless talking,” he confirmed, in an obvious aside.

“Do you not think,” the monk challenged, “you might do better to try arguing your way out of trouble? Once in a while?”

“My tongue is neither as sharp nor as quick as my knives–”

To his bemusement, Yoriana came galloping back.

“What’s wrong?” he echoed Neever.

“Dust,” she declared, “on the rise to the north west.”

Kicking free of his stirrups, he balanced a moment on his saddle, then vaulted to the roof of the tinker’s wagon.

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