Warlock

south along the great blank face of the ridge. “There they are, Shaker, and what looks to be a hundred of them.”
        
        “Ah,” the Shaker said, catching sight of their visitors. “They are rather brightly liveried for their assignment, don't you think?”
        
        “Had I been an enemy, I would have shafted all of them with but a single blow before they could have descended the face.”
        
        Sandow frowned, pulled at his sallow, wizened face as was his habit when in contemplation. “It's a bad sign of their efficiency as escorts. We will not follow their example of natty dress.”
        
        “You're taking the assignment, then?” Mace asked, looking into his master's face with some concern.
        
        “I suppose,” the Shaker said. “There are things to be gained, mostly knowledge and experience, but things nonetheless.”
        
        The door to the study opened behind them, and Gregor entered, his voice mock-serious. “Master Shaker, I fear there must be a funeral today and prayers for the soul of our beloved Mace. I was awakened by the sound of the roof giving in as his weight carried him to the basement. Oh! There you are, Mace! Thank the gods that things were not as I assumed!”
        
        Mace grumbled and stood, his head but a foot from the ceiling of the study. “If I had fallen through the roof, you can be sure that I would have calculated a fall through your bedchamber to carry you with me.”
        
        Smiling, Gregor walked to the window and stared at the descending line of the General's troops.
        
        Shaker Sandow regarded the boy fondly. He loved both Mace and Gregor as if they were his own sons, but perhaps he loved Gregor just a bit more. An awful thing to say or think, perhaps, but nonetheless true for it. No matter what qualities he possessed, Mace was not a complete Shaker-and the fair, slight young Gregor was. No father or step-father can resist letting a flow of affection pour upon a son who will walk in his same footsteps.
        
        “A bright lot, eh?” Gregor asked.
        
        “I could have got all of them with an odd lot of arrows and a bow, at proper distance,” Mace said.
        
        “I wouldn't if I were you,” Gregor replied. They're our friends.”
        
        “Enough, enough!” Shaker Sandow said, holding up his hands. “Your brotherly jousting will one day lead to fists-but today is not the day for it. There is much to do.”
        
        At that Mace went to prepare the table for guests, and the apprentice, Gregor, went to dress in something more formal than a nightgown.
        
        For the next hour, the Shaker watched the troops moving toward the slim valley where Perdune lay, their banners fluttering before them on four staffs borne by four crimson liveried young men. The fools, he thought. The stupid, ill-prepared fools.
        
        But with his help and his magics, perhaps some of them would live to step foot across the Cloud Range to the east. Perhaps a few of them would see the mysterious lands beyond the mountains where but two parties from the coastal lands had ever penetrated before. Maybe. But he would not wager on that…
        

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    2
        
        
        
        At precisely two hours until noon, the foot soldiers reached the gate of Shaker Sandow, with all eyes on the street watching them from behind curtained windows or dakened doorways. Though they were a natty lot in yellows and blues and reds, with green boots to mid-thigh and cloaks of purest white falling behind them, they were bedraggled and in need of rest. It had been impossible to bring horses across the Banibals, and it was quite some distance and rough footing without them. The men were perspiring, and their faces were smudged with dirt, as were their cloaks and shirts, their ballooning sleeves torn and deflated.
        
        There were two officers, a captain and a commander, the former quite young and the latter almost as old as the Shaker himself. These detached themselves from the squad and walked stiffly to the Shaker's door. On the third clatter of the iron knocker, Mace swung the portal wide, looked down on them from his six feet seven inches, and said, “The Shaker expects you. Come in.”
        
        The two officers hesitated, looked at each other in confusion, then entered past the bulk of the young assistant. Whether they were more