Into the thinking kingdoms - Alan Dean Foster [128]
Their hulking guide nodded vigorously. “Many places, much food. Not see myself, but come here often and spy on flatland people. Hear them talking, learn about flatlands.” He eyed the tall southerner questioningly. “We go down now?”
Ehomba considered the sky. Away from the snow and cold, they might have a chance to reach a community before dark. He was not so concerned for himself, but Simna would clearly benefit from a night spent in civilized settings.
“Yes, Hunkapa. Go down now.” He put a hand on one massive, shaggy arm. “And Hunkapa—thank you. We could not have made it through these mountains without your guidance.”
It was impossible to tell whether the beast was blushing beneath all that thick hair, but Hunkapa Aub turned away so that Ehomba could not see his face.
“You save me, I help you. Thanks not needed.”
Ehomba turned to Simna. “Come on, my friend. We will go down into civilization and find you a bed.”
The swordsman groaned piteously. “That means I have to walk again? On these poor feet?”
Their guide immediately moved toward him. “Hunkapa carry.”
“No, no, that’s not necessary, friend!” The speed with which Simna ascended to his supposedly untenable feet was something to behold.
Together, the four travelers commenced their departure from the lower reaches of the inhospitable Hrugars. As they descended, Ehomba thought to inquire of Hunkapa as to the name of the country they were entering.
“Hunkapa listen to flatlanders talk.” He gestured expansively with an imposing arm. “This place all one, called Lifongo. No,” he corrected himself quickly, his brows knotting. “Not that.” His expression brightened. “Laconda. That it. This place, Laconda.”
It was Simna’s turn to frown. “Funny. Seems to me I’ve heard that name mentioned somewhere before, but I can’t quite place—” He broke off, staring at Ehomba. The herdsman had stopped in his tracks and was staring, his lips slightly parted, straight ahead. “Hoy, bruther, you all right? You owe someone money here?”
“No, friend Simna. You are correct. You have heard that name before.” Turning his head, he met the curious eyes of his companion. “You heard it from me. Laconda is the home of Tarin Beckwith, the noble warrior who died in my arms on the beach below my village.” He returned his gaze to the magnificent vista extending before them.
“He cannot ever come home—but now, if fate is willing, perhaps I can return the honor of his memory to his people.”
XX
Long before they reached the outskirts of the first town they found themselves in among vast orchards of mango and guava. Planted in even rows and trimmed as neatly as any garden of roses, the trees were heavy with fruit. Eventually the travelers encountered growers and their assistants. Initial cheerful greetings were tempered by fear when the Lacondans caught sight of Hunkapa Aub and the black litah striding along behind the two men, but Ehomba and Simna were quick to reassure the locals that their unusual, and unusually large, friends would do them no harm.
Awed and wide-eyed, the orchardists provided the visitors with instructions on the best way to pass through their country to Laconda North, for it was from there and not Laconda proper that Tarin Beckwith had hailed. Questioning revealed that despite their apparently contented demeanor the people still lived in a permanent state of mourning. Everyone knew the tale of how the perfidious warlock Hymneth the Possessed had come from a far country to steal away the joy of Laconda, the Visioness Themaryl. Of how the finest and most well-born soldiers of both Laconda and Laconda North had sought to effect her return by every means at their disposal, only to return dispirited and defeated, or not to return at all. The warlock Hymneth had taken his prize and vanished, some said across the Semordria itself. A few brave souls from both countries were reputed to have chased him that far. None