A Triumph of Souls (19 page)

“Steer where?” Gently, the shaggy hulk took the limp body of the herdsman in his massive arms, cradling the empty but animate
human envelope as easily as he would a child.

“West. Where else?” Settling himself in position, the swordsman tore into ropes and lines, adjusting the sail to catch the
wind that, fortuitously, continued to blow from the east. Almost immediately, the wagon began to move. It creaked and groaned
in places that previously had been silent, but nothing fell off. Very soon, they were scooting
along the increasingly bumpy track at a respectable rate of speed.

They made good progress with no more interruptions. Ahlitah hunted, bringing back rabbits and small antelope to feed not only
himself but his companions. For Ehomba there were mashed-up berries and chopped fish. His mouth and teeth still worked, but
the lack of any bony support left him unable to chew all but the softest foods. Much to Simna’s continued surprise, the herdsman
seemed content. He could not walk, but he could pull himself along the ground with his long, lean-muscled arms and kick out
with his legs. So long as he did not try to raise up any higher than his arms could push him, he did not appear to be suffering
greatly.

The swordsman marveled at his friend’s stoicism. Anyone else he had ever known, upon sacrificing their skeleton, would have
lapsed into melancholy. Not Ehomba. He was positively buoyant, commending Simna on his steering, Ahlitah on his hunting, and
Hunkapa for his help and perpetual good spirits.

“By Gierbourne if I don’t think you’re a happier man without it,” the swordsman finally commented on the fifth day after the
fateful final encounter with the representatives of the Brotherhood.

“A skeleton has many uses.” Lying in Hunkapa Aub’s trunklike arms, Ehomba twisted himself slightly to meet his friend’s gaze.
“But traveling upright is not always the best way to live. It exposes one to the wind, and to the spears and arrows of enemies.
There are advantages, too, to a low profile. Ask any snake.”

“I agreed to help a man, not a snake.” Grumbling, Simna
concentrated on his steering. “Looks like a river up ahead. Big one.”

Ehomba had Hunkapa hold him high. “I think the wagon track stops before it reaches the bank. But there are not as many trees
on the other side, and the land is more level than what we have just come through. We should be able to make use of this vehicle
for a while longer yet.”

“Good,” the swordsman snapped. “I’m starting to wonder if maybe I haven’t done too much walking for too little reward these
past several months.”

“Why Simna, are you starting to have second thoughts? What about the treasure?” From within sagging pleats of flesh the herdsman
smiled at him.

“Hoy, what about the treasure?” The swordsman trimmed a line. “In all this time I’ve heard nothing about it from you, except
when you chose to deny its existence. Now that things have turned troublesome, you tease me with it.” He stared hard at the
flaccid figure. “When I wax enthusiastic on the subject, you claim it doesn’t exist. But if I express skepticism, you lose
no opportunity to remind me of it.” His expression tightened.

“Don’t think to play me the fool, long bruther. If I decide that’s what you’re about, I’ll drop you like a year-old egg and
vanish into the bush.”

Ehomba managed to shrug, a ripple that ran through his right shoulder like a small wave lapping repeatedly at a sand beach.
“You are right, friend Simna. There is no treasure. It is only a trick to keep you with me, to buy your aid. I am ashamed
before the elders of my village.” A limber, boneless hand fluttered in the swordsman’s direction. “Go now. Leave with your
dignity still intact. I release you from your vows.”

“Don’t tempt me, bruther! Don’t think that I won’t. I’ll stop this gut-churning box on wheels right here and get out, and
leave you in the care of one too stupid to know better and another who’d as soon eat you for supper as help you!”

“Do it, then. Stop now, Simna, and take your leave while there’s still time.” Ehomba rarely grew angry, or raised his voice.
“Forget about the treasure. It does not exist. It is only a phantom you have raised up in your own mind to justify your continued
journeying in my company. Free yourself of it! Abandon the wagon and make your way back to the coast and its welcoming towns.
I will not think ill of you for doing so. Only a fool risks his life for an illusion.”

“That’s right. By Gworjha, you’re right!” Pulling in on the lines, the swordsman trimmed the sail. The wind-wagon slowed to
a stop. Behind him, the black litah looked up sleepily.

“What now?” it growled softly.

Hunkapa supplied a ready explanation. “Big river.” He looked uncertainly from Ehomba to Simna. “Big argument.”

“That’s right.” Securing the lines, a determined look on his face, the swordsman was gathering up his kit and a limited share
of their dwindling supplies. “I’m leaving!”

The big cat was only mildly interested. As always, it found sleep of more interest than the often unaccountable doings of
humans. “What for?”

Ehomba elucidated. “Simna has realized that the treasure he sought in my company does not really exist, and he will no longer
waste his time seeking it.”

“That’s right!” The swordsman fumbled with his gear. “Only a fool and an imbecile risks his life for no recompense.”
Having arranged his kit and stuffed his backpack full, he put one hand on the side of the wagon. Looking back, he glared at
the rubbery, limp length of the herdsman gazing back at him from within the cradle of Hunkapa’s arms.

“Well?”

“Well what?” Ehomba’s demeanor was as pleasant and placid as ever. “I wish you a safe journey back to the coast. One man traveling
alone and making little noise should be able to avoid the attentions of the Brotherhood. Perhaps we will meet again someday.”

“Hoy, not if the fates are kind to me.” The swordsman started to lift himself over the side of the wagon. He had only gone
partway when he paused. While he hovered between wagon and ground, the look on his face underwent a slow but profound change.

“Hoyyyy
—you think you’re very clever, don’t you, wizard?”

“Clever?” Ehomba considered. “My mother and father thought that I was. Among the herders of my age I am considered tolerably
adept.”

Simna let himself down, back into the wagon. He was grinning ferociously. “Master of magic you may be, or you may not, but
the day will be long indeed when your kind can outwit Simna ibn Sind!”

The flaccid shape looked puzzled. “I do not follow you, my friend.”

Even as he spoke, the swordsman was disencumbering himself of pack and weapon. “You’re a shrewd fellow, Etjole Ehomba. Far
more subtle than most. You almost had me!” He wagged an admonishing finger at the slack outline. “Your language is simple,
but you know how to
use logic to twist a man’s thoughts. You actually had me convinced there was no treasure! Planted the notion anew in my mind
until it seemed to be my own. Well, it won’t work! I’m a little slow, long bruther, but I’m not like other people. When I
get a grip on something, I don’t let go until I’ve shaken all the nourishment out of it. You won’t cheat me of my share so
easily!” Settling himself at lines and tiller, he prepared to swing the sail around to catch the wind.

“Try all the thought-twisting you wish, but you’ll not be rid of me. No one talks Simna ibn Sind out of his share of treasure.”

Ehomba sighed, his ribless chest rising and falling less than it would have had it been properly supported from within. “You
are certainly a most determined man, friend Simna. Once you get an idea in your head, nothing can take it from you.”

“That’s right, and don’t you forget it, mentor of calves.” The swordsman pulled hard on a line.

“Wait!” Ehomba rose up as far as he could in the cradle of Hunkapa’s arms.

“What for?” Jawline set, Simna continued to ready the windwagon. “So you can try more of your sorceral tricks and word games
to discourage me? I don’t think so.”

“It is not that. Someone is coming.” A shaky, rubbery arm rose to point back in the direction they had come.

Frowning, a reluctant Simna turned to gaze back up the wagon track. “I don’t see anything. If you’re trying to stall so I’ll
leave before we cross the river, you’re wasting your time, Etjole. Like it or not, I’m coming with you. All the way to Ehl-Larimar.”

“From out of the trees, a little to the north. A lone rider. An old friend.”

“What ‘old friend’?” Exasperated, Simna turned fully on the bench seat. “We have no friends here, and no member of the
Grömsketter
’s crew would leave her to come this far inland. We don’t—” He broke off in midsentence as a single figure hove into view.
Ehomba was right; it
was
an old friend.

It was the herdsman’s skeleton.

Pushing its mount hard, the long, lanky collection of bones kept low, head forward and arms locked around the neck bones of
its osseous steed. Legs pounding, the skeletal stallion picked up speed as it struck the slight down-slope leading to the
edge of the river.

“But how… ?” Simna’s query trailed away, and he could only turn a look of bafflement on his friend.

From within the folds of flesh that comprised his sunken face, the herdsman smiled back at his companion. “If deprived of
the rest of him, a man’s skeleton gets lonely.”

“You knew it would come back to you,” Simna declared accusingly.

“I knew it would try. I hoped it would succeed. I have always had confidence in all of me, my friend.” A boneless hand fluttered
in the swordsman’s direction. “Keep sail up. It will be back among us soon.”

“Not soon enough.” Rising to his full height and lifting Ehomba effortlessly as he did so, Hunkapa Aub nodded in the direction
of the densest part of the forest. “Bones come also.”

Instantly, Simna was on his feet and staring along the line of Hunkapa’s sight. Sure enough, from among the trees there now
poured an entire battalion of the Brotherhood.
They came streaming toward the windwagon, some on foot, others riding an even greater assortment of skeletal grotesqueries
than the travelers had seen previously, yelling and screaming in their hoarse, ossified whispers while waving all manner of
weapons above their bleached skulls.

“Gipebwhen,” Simna murmured nervously. “There must be hundreds of ‘em!” He looked sharply at his soft friend. “What do we
do?”

“Cross the river,” Ehomba told him. “Cross it quickly, I should say. Sail, Simna. Fill the sail.”

“Hoy, right, sure!” Settling himself back on the seat, the swordsman hastily brought lines and tiller into play. As the single
canvas filled with the steady breeze, the high-wheeled wagon once more began to move toward the water.

“Just one thing, bruther.” As he spoke, Simna deftly controlled the lines that kept the vehicle’s sail properly trimmed. “What
do we do when we reach the river? Swim for it? This conveyance is no boat.”

“No indeed,” the pliant figure of his friend replied, “but save for a few braces and nails it is all wood, light and strong.
I am hoping it will float.”

The windwagon continued to pick up speed. “And if it doesn’t?” an anxious swordsman inquired further.

“Then I will float better than any of you.” The eyes that gazed back at the swordsman did not smile.

Howling and moaning, the Brotherhood of the Bone angrily pursued the turncoat skeleton and its fleshy friends. Repeatedly
looking back over his shoulder, Simna ibn Sind tried to cajole more speed out of the solid but clunky windwagon. It had been
built for durability, not speed.
The breeze held behind them, but he found himself wishing for one of the gales they had encountered at sea. Occasionally he
inhaled deeply and blew into the sail, more as a gesture of encouragement to the wind than out of any expectation of increasing
their velocity, however minutely.

“Come on, hurry!” Holding Ehomba easily in one arm, Hunkapa Aub was using the other to beckon repeatedly at the herdsman’s
fleeing skeleton. Spears began to fall around the fugitive. One struck its mount, but passed harmlessly through the rib cage
without becoming entangled in the bleached white legs.

Then it was racing alongside, barely keeping pace with the steadily accelerating windwagon. With its bony mount exhausted
and beginning to fail, Ehomba’s insides had no choice but to risk the jump from vertebrae to vehicle. Letting go of the ossified
stallion’s neck bones, it leaped, arms outstretched—and fell short.

Only to be caught at the wrist by a massive, hairy hand. Thick fingers wrapped around the delicate bones and strained, pulling
the skeletal structure bodily into the wagon.

“Set me down,” Ehomba directed his massive friend. Obediently, Hunkapa complied.

Having no breath to catch, the skeleton did not hesitate. On hands and knees it crawled over to the limp form of its outer
self. With an effort, Ehomba opened his mouth. It was the mouth of an eromakasi, trained to expand sufficiently to swallow
darkness of any size. Inserting first a hand, then an entire arm, the wayward skeleton wriggled and wiggled itself back into
its fleshy sheath.

Slowly, Ehomba’s shape and silhouette filled out, returning to normal. When the last of the animate white
bone had disappeared down his gullet, he contracted his greatly distended mouth and sat up. Working his jaws up and down and
from side to side to realign his skin with his skull, he twisted and turned as he sat in the bottom of the jouncing, rocking
wagon. Finally satisfied, he stood up for the first time in days, and stretched. Simna had not heard so much creaking and
groaning and cracking since he had been forced to spend a stomach-churning night alone in their cabin aboard the
Grömsketter
.

Looking over at him, the herdsman smiled contently. “That is better. Much better. Life is easier without a skeleton because
there is less strain on the body, but being unable to stand up soon grows tiresome.” His smile vanished as he grabbed quickly
for the mast and shouted. “Watch out!”

“Hoy?” Simna sat up straight and gripped the tiller and control lines tightly in his fingers. So entranced had he been by
his friend’s structural renascence that his attention had wandered from their heading. In the interim, they had run out of
road.