The Wall | Page 4

at the edge of the
shade cast by their tent, staring up at the Wall and the tiny figures of
the few foolhardy young men who walked there. They moved
purposefully back and forth, strutting in a precise manner, as though on
parade, each one covering a few dozen meters of the ledge that jutted
out from the sheer face of smooth stone.
It was Sartas, though, who was clearly the most committed. The others
would occasionally falter, pausing every now and then to look down
onto the desert where the company's tents lay pitched. Through his
spyglass Tavarius could see their faces, and the longing in their eyes,
and knew they weren't long for the Wall. Soon they'd give in to the
seductive shade of the tents, enticed by prospects of a respite from the
oven heat of the Wall. But in Sartas there was no such yearning. He
remained stoic, marching endlessly back and forth over his small
section of the Wall, stamping his feet loud and strong at each turn, and
ignoring the sweat that rolled down from beneath his tight metal helm.
"It makes me hot and tired just looking at him," Karn complained. He
drank deeply of his wine, then thumped his chest to elicit a noisy belch.
"There should be a law against it."
"He does the King's bidding, my friend," Tavarius chortled.
"And are we not doing the King's bidding?" Karn demanded with mock
indignation. "Do we not suffer this wretched watered wine, and the grit
of sand in our food for the whim of a king? Do we not endure this
unbearable heat simply to assuage the fears of the public?"

"There's the coin and the honor," Tavarius reminded him.
"Ah, yes! Such honor. And the coin!" Karn snorted and made a face.
"One gold sovereign at the end of six months."
"Better pay than any ship hand or common sentry."
"But a ship hand has a regular port, and the sentry returns home each
day to wife and hot food. No watered wines for him. No sand filled
stew for his delicate palate."
"Think of the prestige," Tavarius said.
Karn's face brightened. "There's that," he agreed. "Many's the time I've
lifted a free pint of the ale in the taverns. And it's certain that a walker
of the Wall can have his choice of women to warm his bed, should he
so fancy."
"Which is no doubt why I see your ugly face out here year after year,"
Tavarius grumped good-naturedly.
"Well, it ain't the scenery." Karn looked out towards the Wall. "The
Gods only know that I tire of seeing that cursed blight of stone. I grow
weary of wondering what's beyond, and why it is that we sit here
waiting for something that may never come."
"Perhaps there are others on the other side wondering much the same,"
Tavarius suggested.
"You think so?" Karn looked doubtful. He scratched his beard and
studied the Wall with a shrewd eye. "I wonder that no one has ever
tried going over," he mused.
"Because you know as well as I that none would dare tempt the fates.
Legend and myth forbid it. Those who would hazard to cross the wall
shall bring down upon the lands of Cysteria the wrath of the Gods,"
Tavarius pronounced, without a great deal of conviction.
"Whatever that might be," Karn muttered irreverently.

"I fear the Wall has made you cynical and rebellious, my friend."
"The wall has made me something," Karn growled in a surly manner.
"But it's the King who sends me here to spend six months without good
food or drink or women."
"He's the King, and he can do as he sees fit."
"Perhaps were he to spend a tour of duty out here he'd change his view
of things."
"It's not our place to judge the likes of the King," Tavarius said
sarcastically.
"Of course," Karn agreed, rolling his eyes. "And heaven forbid that he
should ever be wrong."
"His word is god, so long as he sits upon the throne."
"Perhaps, then, it's time for someone else to sit upon it."
Tavarius feigned shock. "Such blasphemy."
"None that you haven't heard before." Karn poured himself more wine.
"And none you won't hear again, I venture." He lifted his goblet and
pointed with it to the Wall. "They'll soon weary of this nonsense and
join us."
"Perhaps," said Tavarius. He raised his spyglass to his eye again and
peered towards the Wall. He knew it so well after all these years -- each
inch of its perfection. And yet, he didn't really know it at all; for it
remained as much a mystery to him now as it had when he'd been the
age of Sartas. No doubt it would remain thus, until he