Into the thinking kingdoms - Alan Dean Foster [77]
With a thick finger their reluctant host indicated the wooden clock placed high on a small shelf. “D’ye know what that portends?”
Unfamiliar with mechanical clocks, Ehomba kept silent. But Simna nodded once, brusquely. “It ‘portends’ that it’s twenty minutes to midnight. So?”
The merchant looked past them, toward the main entrance, and his tone softened slightly. “Midnight is the witching hour.”
“Depends where you happen to be.” Kicking back in his chair, the swordsman put his feet up on the table and crossed them at the ankles. “In Vwalta, the capital of Drelestan, it’s the drinks-all-around hour. In Poulemata it’s the time-for-bed hour.”
“Well here,” the proprietor observed sharply, “it be the witching hour.”
“For a good part of the evening those two men were relaxed and enjoying themselves in our company,” Ehomba pointed out. “When they realized the time they became frantic.” He turned in his chair to look outside. On the silent, night-shrouded street, nothing moved. “What happens at this witching hour? Do witches suddenly appear?”
“Nothing so straightforward, friend.” Quietly annoyed, the owner glanced meaningfully at Simna’s sandaled feet where they reposed on the table. The swordsman responded with a good-natured smile and left his feet where they were. “If it were only a matter of the occasional witch, no one would care, and there would be no need for the Covenant.”
“What is this Covenant?” An unpleasant, tingling sensation made Ehomba feel that they were going to have to leave their comfortable surroundings in a hurry. He made sure that his pack and weapons were close at hand.
Leaning back against the bar, the proprietor crossed his arms over his lower chest, above his protuberant belly, and regarded them sorrowfully. “Ye have never been to Phan before, have ye, or heard of it in your travelings?”
The herdsman shook his head. “This is our first time in this part of the world.” Off in his corner, Ahlitah snored on, blissfully indifferent to the prattlings of men.
Their host sighed deeply. “Long, long ago, the province of Phan was known as the Haunted Land. Though it was, and is, surrounded by fertile countries populated by happy people, Phan itself was shunned except for those daring travelers who passed through it on the river Shornorai, which flows through its northern districts. Even they were not safe from attack.”
“From attack?” Simna’s eyes were slightly glazed, a consequence of downing all the free drinks that had been contributed by their now vanished audience. “By whom?”
Hirsute brows drawing together, the owner regarded him sternly. “Not by whom, friend. By what. It is a well-known fact that Phan has always provided a home to the dregs and rabble of the Otherworlds, to the noisome trash that is too debased and depraved to find asylum in those regions where such creatures normally dwell.” He looked down at his arms and apron. “All spirits and entities need a place to abide, even the most wicked and corrupt. Phan was that place. They congregated here, making this fine land uninhabitable, preying upon and tormenting any daring enough to try and homestead its fruitful plains and lush river valleys.”
“Obviously, something happened to change that,” Ehomba observed. Simna was listening more closely now, drawn not only to the proprietor’s story but to the growing feeling that it just might have something to do with the hysterical egression of their last two listeners.
The owner nodded. “Led by Yaw Cresthelmare the Immutable, distant and greatest ancestor of the present Count Tyrahnar the Enlightened and founder of the dynasty of Phan, a great gathering of opportunists and migrants resolved to test the limits of the befouled occupiers of this land. The momentous battle that ensued raged for years. Many died, but were replaced by hopeful pilgrims from elsewhere. The debased and profane suffered far fewer casualties, for the dead are hard to kill, but neither could they drive the determined Yaw and his followers from Phan. Whenever