Land and Overland - Omnibus (49 page)

Bartan jarred down onto his backside and hands, rolled over in the dust and was in the act of surging up and away from the house in a fear-boosted sprint when the picture behind his eyes shifted and changed. Instead of a nightmarish monster he saw miscellaneous items of old clothing suspended from a hook on a wall. There was a dark cloak, a torn jacket, a hat, and a stained apron with one string being wafted by the abrupt opening of the door.

He slowly got to his feet and brushed the dust from his body, all the while staring at the dark rectangle of the doorway. It was obvious what had caused the momentary illusion, and he felt a tingle of shame over his reaction, but in spite of that he was now oddly reluctant to enter the house.

What made me want to go in there in the first place?
he thought.
It's somebody else's property. Nothing to do with me…

He turned and had taken one pace towards his boat when a new thought obtruded. What he was actually doing was running away from the farmhouse because he had become unaccountably fearful, and if he allowed that to happen he would be even less of a man than Trinchil had supposed. Muttering unhappily to himself, Bartan spun on his heel and marched into the house.

A quick inspection of the musty rooms established that the worst of his fears had been groundless—there were no human remains. All the major items of furniture had been removed, but he found extra evidence that the occupants had departed in great haste. Mats had been left in two of the rooms and there was a ceramic jar full of salt in a niche in the stone fireplace. Farming people simply did not abandon items like that in normal circumstances, Bartan knew, and he was unable to rid himself of a suspicion that something sinister had occurred on the lonely farm in the not-too-distant past.

Relieved at having no further cause to remain in the uneasy atmosphere, he went outside—brushing past the slow-stirring garments hanging by the door—and walked straight to the airboat. It had lost some buoyancy as the gasbag cooled and now was resting lightly on its skids. Bartan unfastened the tether, seated himself in the gondola and took the boat aloft. It was still only a short time past noon and after a moment's thought he decided to continue flying west, following the line of a faint track into the lush green landscape. Much of the terrain consisted of drumlins—small hog-backed hills, oval in plan because of ancient glaciation—so regularly arranged that they reminded him of giant eggs in a basket.
There's the natural name for this fertile region,
he thought.
The Basket of Eggs!

Within a short time he saw another farm agreeably positioned on the slopes of one of the rounded hills. He banked and flew towards it, and this time—in his state of alertness—he was quicker to realise that the place was not being worked. On arriving overhead he circled the farm once at low altitude to confirm his findings. No tools or equipment were visible and the farmhouse appeared to have been completely stripped, evidence that the evacuation had been more leisurely and ordered, but why had it taken place at all?

Deeply puzzled, Bartan continued with the flight, changing to a zigzag search pattern which slowed his progress to the west. In the hour that followed he discovered eight more farms, all in ideal agricultural land, all totally deserted. The sections in the region were far too large to be worked by single families, and the people who claimed them did so with the intention of laying down fortunes for their descendants. As the population of Overland increased the pioneers would be able to sell or sublet land to later generations. It was a prize not to be yielded lightly—and yet
something
had induced many hard-headed farmers to pack up their belongings and move on.

Eventually Bartan began to pick out the glint of sunlight on a sizable river and decided on it as a natural limit to the day's sortie. At the northern end of one of his sweeps he detected a hazy column of smoke arising from a point which seemed to be close to the river. It was the first sign of human habitation he had seen in more than ten days, and was made even more intriguing by the prospect of getting information about the empty land he had been crossing. He set a course for the smoke trace, flying as fast as he dared in view of the gasbag's untrustworthy condition, and soon began to realise that what he was approaching was not another farm, but a small township.

It was situated on a Y-shaped fork created by a tributary joining the main river. As the airboat brought him closer, Bartan saw that it consisted of about forty buildings, some of which were large enough to be warehouses. White squares and triangles of sails indicated the river was navigable to the southern ocean. The place was obviously a trading centre, with the potential to become important and prosperous, and its presence made the enigma of the abandoned farms all the more baffling.

Long before Bartan had reached the edge of the township the roar of his jet had attracted attention on the ground. Two men came galloping out on bluehorns to meet him, waving vigorously, and then kept pace with the boat as he guided it down into an open patch near a bridge which spanned the lesser river. Men and women were issuing from the surrounding buildings to form a ring of spectators. Several youths, needing no appeal, willingly grabbed the skids and held the craft until Bartan had tethered it to a convenient sapling.

A red-faced man with prematurely white hair approached Bartan, obviously in the role of spokesman. In spite of being slightly below average height he had an air of assurance and, unusually in such a community, was wearing a smallsword.

"I am Majin Karrodall, reeve of the township of New Minnett," he said in friendly tones. "We don't see many aircraft in these parts."

"I'm scouting for a party of claimants," Bartan replied to the unspoken question. "My name is Bartan Drumme, and I would be grateful for some water to drink. I have flown much farther than I intended today and it is thirsty work."

"You're welcome to all the water you want, but if you would prefer it you can have good brown ale. What do you say?"

"I say good brown ale." Bartan, who had not tasted an alcoholic beverage since joining the expedition, grinned to show his appreciation of the offer. There was a murmur of approval from those watching and the men began a general movement towards an open-fronted barn-like building which appeared to double as a meeting place and tavern. In a short time Bartan was seated at a long table in the company of Karrodall and about ten other men, most of whom had been introduced to him as storekeepers or riverboat crew. From the tone of the amiable banter going on around him Bartan guessed that impromptu gatherings like this were not infrequent events, and that his arrival had been seized on as a convenient excuse. A substantial two-handled jar was placed before him and when he sipped from it he found the ale to be cool, strong and not too sweet for his taste. Comforted by the welcome and the unexpected hospitality, he proceeded to quench his thirst and to answer questions about himself, the airboat and the objectives of Trinchil's expedition.

"I fear this is not the kind of news you wish to hear," Karrodall said, "but I think you will be obliged to turn north. The lands to the west of here are curtailed by the mountains, and to the south by the ocean—and the prime tracts have all been claimed and registered. It isn't much better if you head north into New Kail, I admit, but I have heard that there are one or two quiet little valleys still untouched on the other side of the Barrier range."

"I've seen those valleys," a plump man called Otler put in. "The only way you can stand upright is by growing one leg longer than the other."

The remark occasioned some laughter, and Bartan waited until it had subsided. "I have just flown over some excellent farming land to the east of the river. I realise, of course, that we are too late to claim it—but why are the farms not being worked?"

"It'll
never
be too late to claim that cursed place," Otler muttered, staring down into his drink.

Bartan was immediately intrigued. "What do you…?"

"Pay him no heed," Karrodall said quickly. "It was the ale talking."

Otler sat up straight, with an offended expression on his round face. "I'm not drunk! Are you suggesting that I'm drunk? I'm not drunk!"

"He's drunk," Karrodall assured Bartan.

"Nevertheless, I'd like to know what he meant." Bartan knew he was displeasing the reeve by pursuing the point, but Otler's strange comment was reverberating in his mind. "This is a matter of considerable importance to me."

"You might as well tell what he wants to know, Majin," another man said. "He'll be able to find out for himself."

Karrodall sighed and shot Oiler a venomous glance, and when he spoke his voice had lost its former briskness. "The land to which you refer is known to us as the Haunt. And while it is true that all claims to it have been allowed to lapse, that information is of no value to you. Your people will never settle there."

"Why not?"

"Why do you think we call it the Haunt? It is a place of evil, my friend. All who go there are … troubled."

"By ghosts? By wraiths?" Bartan made no attempt to hide his incredulity and joy. "Are you saying that there are only hobgoblins to dispute the ownership of that land?"

Karrodall's face was solemn, the eyes intent. "I'm saying that you would be ill-advised to try settling there."

"Thank you for the advice." Bartan drained his ale, set the jar down with a flourish and stood up. "And thank you for the hospitality, gentlemen—I will repay it soon."

He left the table and went out into the aftday sunshine, eager to get aloft and return to the expedition with his good news.

The skyship was being borne eastwards on the lightest of breezes, but the ground over which it was drifting was uneven and covered with scrub, which meant that the mounted soldiers had some difficulty in keeping pace with their alien quarry.

Colonel Mandle Gartasian, riding at the head of the column, kept his gaze firmly fixed on the ship and for the most part trusted his bluehorn to find its way around obstacles. The sight of the vast balloon and its room-sized gondola was activating bleak memories, causing a degree of pain he had not experienced since his first years on Overland, and yet he was unable to look elsewhere.

He was a tall man, with the powerful build typical of the Kolcorronian military caste, and showed few signs of his fifty years. Apart from a dusting of grey in his cropped black hair and a deepening of the lines on his square face, he looked much as he had done at the time of the hasty evacuation of Ro-Atabri. He had been an idealistic young lieutenant then, and had unhesitatingly taken his place on one of the first military ships to depart the doomed city. Thousands of times since that day he had cursed the naive trust in his senior officers which had led him to take off ahead of his wife and infant son.

Ronoda and the boy had been assigned places on a civilian ship, and he had left them in the belief that the army was in full control of the situation, that the embarkation schedules would be maintained, and that the separation would last just for the duration of the flight. Only when his binoculars revealed the growing chaos far below had he felt the first pangs of fear, and by then it had been much too late…

"Look, sir!" The words came from Lieutenant Keero, who was riding at Gartasian's side. "I think they're preparing to land!"

Gartasian nodded. "I believe you're right. Now, remember to keep your men from crowding in on the ship after it touches down. Nobody is to go closer than two hundred paces, even if the ship appears to have landing difficulties. We don't know what the crew's intentions are—and they may have powerful weaponry."

"I understand, sir. I can hardly believe this is happening. Can they really have flown all the way from Land?" Keero was infringing field discipline by making inessential remarks, but it was explained by the excitement on his pink-cheeked face. Gartasian, normally strict on such points, decided the lapse was excusable in the unique circumstances.

"There can be no doubt that they have come from the Old World," he said. "The first question we have to ask is …
why?
Why after all these years? And
who?
Are we dealing with a small group who managed to survive the ptertha attacks, and finally succeeded in making an escape? Or…?" Gartasian left the question unspoken. The idea that the pterthacosis plague might have abated—sparing enough of the population to rebuild an organised society—was too far-fetched for words. It certainly was not the kind of fanciful speculation to be voiced before a junior officer, especially as concealed within it were the seeds of a far wilder notion. Was there the remotest possibility that Ronoda and Hallie were still alive? And had all his years of guilt and remorse been a self-indulgent waste? With sufficient vision, enterprise and courage could he have instigated a return flight to Land?

The torrent of questions, a distillation of fantastic wish-fulfilment dreams, was the last thing Gartasian needed if he were to function well as the commander of a military operation. He gave himself a mental shake and forced his mind to concentrate on the palpable realities of the situation. It had been more than a minute since he had heard the hollow, echoing roar of the skyship's burner as it discharged hot gas into the balloon—an indication that the crew had selected a suitable landing site. The gondola was now a mere twenty feet above the ground, and at its sides he could see the silhouettes of several men who appeared to be working with rail-mounted cannon. He was beginning to wonder if two hundred paces was a good enough margin of safety for his own force when the cannon fired in a downwards direction. Four harpoon-like anchors speared into the ground, each trailing a line, and at once crewmen began hauling the lines in, thereby drawing the gondola into a controlled touchdown. The balloon above it remained inflated, swaying ponderously.

"We have learned one thing," Gartasian said to his lieutenant. "Our visitors never had any intention of staying for long—otherwise they would have vented their balloon."