Teldin held back his own feelings, giving the giff a chance to vent. He remembered how similar his own bitter accusations to his father were to Gomja’s complaints. Amdar had never seemed to understand, always insisting his son perform his duties on the farm and avoid pointless death in battle. They were not the words an idealistic youth had wanted to hear and, in the end, Teldin ran from the farm to seek honor and glory. He never found it in the war. Now, listening to the giff, Teldin tried to remember how it had felt back then. So much had changed since that time. Indeed Teldin found he had greater sympathy for his father than for his own voice in Gomja.

“Well, you’re in Vingaard Valley, outside Kalaman,” the farmer offered lamely, trying to be sympathetic. It was hard, though, since he no longer saw any glory in war. “Does that help?”

Trooper Gomja snorted, shaking his head. “What planet is this?”

“Planet?” Teldin was somewhat surprised by the question. While he had learned during the war that the continent on which he lived was Ansalon, the concept of an even larger body had never occurred to him. “I don’t know,” he admitted.

“Oh.” That knowledge didn’t really seem to help the giff at all. The creature’s gaze sank again.

“What are you going to do in Kalaman?” Teldin asked. It would be nice, bethought, if the giff had some kind of a plan, though Teldin doubted that was the case.

“I don’t know.” Gomja abruptly looked up. “What should I do, sir?”

“Me? That’s not my problem.” Teldin quickly backed off. Being sympathetic only went so far. The giff had already made his life complicated enough. “I’ve got my own worries, like how to get this cloak off. Can’t you decide for yourself?”

The giffs bluish skin darkened. “I don’t know,” the giff said, embarrassed to make the admission. “I’ve never had to."

“Never had…" Teldin shook his head in disbelief. It didn’t seem sensible that anyone as large as the giff should be so inexperienced. Then, remembering his experiences with his own father, Teldin stopped in the middle of the road and considered the trooper. “Just how old are you?” he asked the giff suspiciously.

“I am of age to serve in the ranks of the giff,” Trooper Gomja answered, again standing at attention as he spoke. A dragonfly whirred by and settled on the spreading head of a sunflower beside the road.

Teldin couldn’t help but notice the defensive tone in the giffs voice. “How old is ‘of age’?”

“Sixteen cycles of the spheres,” Gomja answered with exaggerated pride.

“Sixteen cycles-oh, sixteen years,” Teldin said, nodding. He found himself reevaluating his relationship, such as it was, with the giff. Teldin was twice the trooper’s age, even as old as a parent. “And what about your family? They weren’t on the ship, were they?”

“Family?” Gomja cocked his head, bemused by the question. “I was of the Red Platoon.”

Teldin did not understand the gift’s answer. “But you do have a mother and father? Parents-family?”

“Of course I had sires,” Gomja replied, explaining the obvious, “but I am of the Red Platoon. Giff do not live with their sires.

Although it seemed unnatural, Teldin accepted this, given the giff s curious militaristic bearing. He started walking again, slowly, so that the giff could keep pace. “Well, then, where’s the rest of the Red Platoon?”

“I am Red Platoon-or all that’s left,” Gomja answered sadly. The giff wiped away a rivulet of sweat that ran down the center of his muzzle. “The others were on board. They did not have the chance to die fighting.” Teldin wasn’t sure, but it looked like a small tear was forming in the corner of the gift’s tiny eye. If it did, the tear quickly disappeared into the fleshy folds of the gift’s jowls. The farmer decided not to bring the subject up again.

Flies buzzed between the two, attracted by the scent of sweat that reeked from the pair. It was not until the road reached the edge of the hills overlooking the Vingaard River that Teldin felt the urge to talk again. He looked out to see the river flowing across the valley floor.

“Those creatures, the neogi,” the farmer carefully asked of Gomja, “will they be back?”

Gomja screwed up his brow in thought. “They might,” he allowed.

“Might…" Teldin mulled over the words. “And if they caught up with the cloak-bearer?”

“It would mean a fight,” Gomja countered, not sounding entirely displeased.

The two companions stopped for a rest at the edge of the road. Teldin leaned against a worn distance marker while Gomja sprawled back in the tall, sun-browned grass. The giff rubbed the big, round pads of his feet and let out a mock groan.

“In Kalaman,” Teldin said, speaking to himself, “I’d better find someone who can get this cloak off. I might even be able to sell it for the team I need. After all, it’s magical-I think.” Teldin fingered the fabric, little more than a circlet around his neck since its immersion in the stream.

The giff was not listening; he was too busy checking his feet for blisters.

Teldin spat out a mouthful of road dust. “Better get used to it-the marching, I mean,” he advised. “It’s a long walk to Kalaman.”

The giff raised his head and gazed mournfully at the human. “How far, sir?”

“A dozen leagues, at least.” Teldin looked under his arm at the stone marker. “Fourteen, by this.”

Gomja let his head fall back with an audible sigh.

“I thought you were a soldier. Didn’t your platoon ever march anywhere?” Teldin chided.

The giff rolled his bulk upright. “We were marines,” he answered proudly, “not groundlings. We served aboard ship. Marching is for groundlings.”

Teldin felt his temper rise at the giffs words. “I marched everywhere,” he said coldly. “You’d better remember, you’re a groundling now.

The giff reddened, or, more properly, purpled, as his face flushed. “Yes, sir. I will remember that.”

“Enough,” Teldin said with no rancor in his voice. There was no point in arguing. “It’s time to get marching. Kalaman won’t get any closer if we just sit here.” He stood and rolled his shoulders, flexing out the kinks. The giff heaved to his feet.

“I will carry the load, sir.” Gomja held out a huge hand for Teldin’s bedroll. “You should not have to carry it. I want to do my part.”

Teldin started to protest, then thought better of it. Shrugging the makeshift pack off his shoulder, he passed it over. The giff draped the undersized pack around his neck.

“You told me you were a mule skinner,” Gomja said as he lumbered along, adding a curious inflection to the words. “Mule Skinner is the name of your platoon? It would be a great unit to have such a fearsome name.

Swallowing hard, Teldin stifled a hoot of laughter. His blue eyes twinkled mischievously as he thought of how to answer. Finally, with a straight face and mock seriousness, Teldin explained, “Oh, yes, Trooper Gomja, mule skinners were a brave lot, all right. The mule is one of the most dangerous, clever, and ornery beasts found in the land. It was the mule skinners’ job to keep these creatures under control.”

Gomja’s little eyes grew wide as he absorbed every word Teldin spoke. “There must be many heroes in your unit, sir."

A smirk escaped from Teldin’s lips. He fought to keep from collapsing with laughter. “There were many heroes much greater than any mule skinner.” The joke was going too far, and he doubted he could keep a straight face for much longer. “The mule skinners were only soldiers. Others did much more in the war.”

Gomja nodded, though Teldin wasn’t sure the giff accepted his answer. “Did your army win, sir?”

“Win the War of the Lance? I suppose so-yes, we did.” Teldin was relieved to be off the topic of mule skinners, but the question was certainly odd. He assumed everyone knew about the War of the Lance. “We chased the dragons and most of the draconians out, thanks to the Knights of Solamnia and the dragonlances.”