Into the thinking kingdoms - Alan Dean Foster [142]
No one followed them and, needless to say, no one tried to stop them. By the time they reached the northwestern periphery of Laconda North, the border guards, having been informed of what was making its inexorable way in their direction, had long since decided to take early vacation. Marching across the modest, well-made bridge that delineated the frontier, the travelers found themselves in the jumble of lowland forest known as the Yesnaby Hills.
There Ehomba turned and stood alone, eyes shut tight, the sea-bone sword held vertically before him. As Simna and the others looked on, one by one the great whites swam slowly through the humid air to return whence they had come. The sword sucked them back down as if they were minnows disappearing into a bucket.
When the last tail had finned its way out of existence, Ehomba slipped the sword into the empty scabbard on his back and turned to resume their journey. A strong hand reached out to stop him.
“A moment if you please, long bruther.”
Ehomba looked down at his friend. “Is something the matter, Simna?” The herdsman looked back in the direction of the deserted border post and the Laconda lowlands. “You are not worried about the Count sending his soldiers to chase us down?”
“Not hardly,” the swordsman replied. “I think they’re smarter than that. What I’m beginning to wonder is if I am.”
“I do not follow your meaning, my friend.” Nearby, Hunkapa Aub and Ahlitah were exploring a small cave.
“When you found out where we were, you decided to inform this Beckwith of his son’s fate. The result is that he thinks you killed his heir, and that if he is given another chance, he’ll kill you.”
“I do not think that is the case. The more time he has to ponder what transpired, the more I believe he will come to question the truth of what bin Grue told him.”
“Could be, but after what you did to his court he’s still not exactly going to be ready to greet you with open arms if you come back this way. What I’m trying to say, Etjole, is that you don’t owe anything to a man who wants you dead. So we can concentrate on finding the real treasure and forget all this nonsense about returning some rarefied blue-blooded doxy to her family.”
“Not so,” Ehomba insisted. At these words, the swordsman’s expression fell. “The Visioness Themaryl, whose safe return home I promised Tarin Beckwith to try my best to effect, is a scion of Laconda. Not Laconda North. She is of a noble family other than the Beckwiths. Therefore, whatever they may think of me, now or in the future, it does not affect my pledge.” Smiling apologetically, he turned and resumed course on a northwesterly heading. After uttering a few choice words to no one in particular, Simna moved to join him. The two hirsute members of the group hurried to catch up.
“I guess you’re right, bruther. You’re no sorcerer. You just have learned friends and relations who give you useful things. So you have those to make use of, and the benefit of remarkable coincidence.”
“Coincidence?” Ehomba responded absently. At the moment, his attention was devoted to choosing the best route through the hills ahead.
“Hoy. We find ourselves in a country where the fish swim through the air. Not knowing the properties of your other weapon, when I break free I automatically reach for the magical blade whose attributes I am familiar with: the sky-metal sword. But instead I grab the weapon that, it turns out, can give birth to the most monstrous and terrible fish in the sea.” Crowding his friend, he tried hard to make the taller man meet his eyes. “Coincidence.”
Ehomba shrugged, more to show that he was listening than to evince any especial interest in what his friend was saying. “I could have made use of the sky-metal sword. Or this.” Lifting the walking stick–spear off the ground, he shook it slightly. A distant, primeval roar whispered momentarily through the otherwise still air.