by Jerry
He always rode point, staring ahead. Opportunities to peek into his cowl were scant. All you would see, anyway, was a blackened iron mask resembling a handsome man with strong features. For all we knew, there was no one inside. The mask had almost imperceptible eye, nose, and mouth slits. You couldn’t see a thing through them.
Sometimes the mask broke the colorless boredom of Lord Hammer. Some mornings, before leaving his tent, he or Fetch decorated it. The few designs I saw were never repeated.
Lord Hammer was a mystery. We knew nothing of his origins and were ignorant of his goals. He wouldn’t talk, and Fetch wouldn’t say. But he paid well, and a lot up front. He took care of us. Our real bitch was the time of year chosen for his journey.
Fetch said winter was the best time. She wouldn’t expand.
She claimed Lord Hammer was a mighty, famous sorcerer.
So why hadn’t any of us heard of him?
Fetch was a curiosity herself. She was small, cranky, longhaired, homely. She walked more mannish than a man. She was totally devoted to Hammer despite being inclined to curse him constantly. Guessing her age was impossible. For all I could tell, she could have been anywhere between twenty and two hundred.
She wouldn’t mess with the men.
By then that little gnome was looking good.
Sigurd Ormson, our half-tame Trolledyngjan, was the only guy who had had nerve enough to really go after her. The rest of us followed his suit with a mixture of shame and hope.
The night Ormson tried his big move Lord Hammer strolled from his tent and just stood behind Fetch. Sigurd seemed to shrivel to about half normal size.
You couldn’t see Lord Hammer’s eyes, but when his gaze turned your way the whole universe ground to a halt. You felt whole new dimensions of cold. They made winter seem balmy.
Trudge. Trudge. Trudge. The wind giggled and bit. Chenyth and I supported Toamas between us. He kept muttering, “It’s my ribs, boys. My ribs.” Maybe the mule had scrambled his head, too.
“Holy Hagard’s Golden Turds!” Sigurd bellowed. The northman had ice in his hair and beard. He looked like one of the frost giants of his native legends.
He thrust an arm eastward.
The rainfall masked them momentarily. But they were coming closer. Nearly two hundred horsemen. The nearer they got, the nastier they looked. They carried heads on lances. They wore necklaces of human fingerbones. They had rings in their ears and noses. Their faces were painted. They looked grimy and mean.
They weren’t planning a friendly visit.
Lord Hammer faced them. For the first time that morning I glimpsed his mask paint.
White. Stylized. Undeniably the skullface of Death.
He stared. Then, slowly, his stallion paced toward the nomads.
Bellweather, the Itaskian commanding us, started yelling. We grabbed weapons and shields and formed a ragged-assed line. The nomads probably laughed. We were scruffier than they were.
“Gonna go through us like salts through a goose,” Toamas complained. He couldn’t get his shield up. His spear seemed too heavy. But he took his place in the line.
Fetch and the Harish collected the animals behind us.
Lord Hammer plodded toward the nomads, head high, as if there were nothing in the universe he feared. He lifted his left hand, palm toward the riders.
A nimbus formed round him. It was like a shadow cast every way at once.
The nomads reined in abruptly.
I had seen high sorcery during the Great Eastern Wars. I had witnessed both the thaumaturgies of the Brotherhood and the Tervola of Shinsan. Most of us had. Lord Hammer’s act didn’t overwhelm us. But it did dispel doubts about his being what Fetch claimed.
“Oh!” Chenyth gasped. “Will. Look.”
“I see.”
Chenyth was disappointed by my reaction. But he was only seventeen. He had spent the Great Eastern Wars with our mother, hiding in the forests while the legions of the Dread Empire rolled across our land. This was his first venture at arms.
The nomads decided not to bother us after all. They milled around briefly, then rode away.
Soon Chenyth asked, “Will, if he can do that, why’d he bring us?”
“Been wondering myself. But you can’t do everything with the Power.”
We were helping Toamas again. He was getting weaker. He croaked, “Don’t get no wrong notions, Chenyth lad. They didn’t have to leave. They could’ve took us slicker than greased owl shit. They just didn’t want to pay the price Lord Hammer would’ve made them pay.”
III
Lord Hammer stopped.
We had come to a forest. Scattered, ice-rimed trees stood across our path. They were gnarled, stunted things that looked a little like old apple trees.
Fetch came down the line, speaking to each little band in its own language. She told us Kaveliners, “Don’t ever leave the trail once we pass the first tree. It could be worth your life. This’s a fey, fell land.” Her dusky little face was as somber as ever I had seen it.
“Why? Where are we? What’s happening?” Chenyth asked.
She frowned. Then a smile broke through. “Don’t you ever stop asking?” She was almost pretty when she smiled.
“Give him a break,” I said. “He’s a kid.”
She smiled a little at me, then, before turning back to Chenyth. I think she liked the kid. Everybody did. Even the Harish tolerated him. They hardly acknowledged the existence of anyone else but Fetch, and she only as the mouth of the man who paid them.
Fetch was a sorceress in her own right. She knew how to use the magic of her smiles. The genuine article just sort of melted you inside.
“The forest isn’t what it seems,” she explained. “Those trees haven’t died for the winter. They’re alive, Chenyth. They’re wicked, and they’re waiting for you to make a mistake. All you have to do is wander past one and you’ll be lost. Unless Lord Hammer can save you. He might let you go. As an object lesson.”
“Come on, Fetch. How’d you get that name, anyway? That’s not a real name. Look. The trees are fifty feet apart . . .”
“Chenyth.” I tapped his shoulder. He subsided. Lord Hammer was always right. When Fetch gave us a glimmer of fact, we listened.
“Bellweather named me Fetch. Because I run for Lord Hammer. And maybe because he thinks I’m a little spooky. He’s clever that way. You couldn’t pronounce my real name, anyway.”
“Which you’d never reveal,” I remarked.
She smiled. “That’s right. One man with a hold on me is enough.”
“What about Lord Hammer?” Chenyth demanded. When one of his questions was answered, he always found another.
“Oh, he chose his own name. It’s a joke. But you’ll never understand it. You’re too young.” She moved on down the line.
Chenyth smiled to himself. He had won a little more.
His value to us all was his ability to charm Fetch into revealing just a little more than she had been instructed. Maybe Chenyth could have gotten into her.
His charm came of youth and innocence. He was fourteen years younger than Jamal, child of the Harish and youngest veteran. We were all into our thirties and forties. Soldiering had been our way of life for so long we had forgotten there were others. Some of us had been enemies back when. The Harish bore their defeat like the banner of a holy martyr . . .
Chenyth had come after the wars. Chenyth was a baby. He had no hatreds, no prejudices. He retained that bubbling, youthful optimism that had been burned from the rest of us in the crucible of war. We both loved and envied him for it, and tried to get a little to rub off. Chenyth was a talisman. One last hope that the world wasn’t inalterably cruel.
Fetch returned to Lord Hammer’s stirrup. The man in black proceeded.
I studied the trees.
There was something repulsive about them. Something frightening. They were so widely spaced it seemed they couldn’t stand one another. There were no saplings. Most were half dead, hollow, or down and r
otting. They were arranged in neat, long rows, a stark orchard of death . . .
The day was about to die without a whimper when Lord Hammer halted again.
It hadn’t seemed possible that our morale could sink. Not after the mountains and the ice storm. But that weird forest depressed us till we scarcely cared if we lived or died. The band would have disintegrated had it not become so much an extension of Lord Hammer’s will.
We massed behind our fell captain.
Before him lay a meadow circumscribed by a tumbled wall of field stone. The wall hadn’t been mended in ages. And yet . . .
It still performed its function.
“Sorcery!” Brandy hissed.
Others took it up.
“What’d you expect?” Chenyth countered. He nodded toward Lord Hammer.
It took no training to sense the wizardry.
Ice-free, lush grass crowded the circle of stone. Wildflowers fluttered their petals in the breeze.
We Kaveliners crowded Fetch. Chenyth tickled her sides. She yelped. “Stop it!” She was extremely ticklish. Anyone else she would have slapped silly. She told him, “It’s still alive. Lord Hammer was afraid it might have died.”
Remarkable. She said nothing conversational to anyone else, ever.
Lord Hammer turned slightly. Fetch devoted her attention to him. He moved an elbow, twitched a finger. I didn’t see anything else pass between them.
Fetch turned to us. “Listen up! These are the rules for guys who want to stay healthy. Follow Lord Hammer like his shadow. Don’t climb over the wall. Don’t even touch it. You’ll get dead if you do.”
The black horseman circled the ragged wall to a gap where a gate might once have stood. He turned in and rode to the heart of the meadow.
Fetch scampered after him, her big brown eyes locked on him.
How Lord Hammer communicated with her I don’t know. A finger-twitch, a slight movement of hand or head, and she would talk-talk-talk. We didn’t speculate much aloud. He was a sorcerer. You avoid things that might irritate his kind.
She proclaimed, “We need a tent behind each fire pit. Five on the outer circle, five on the inner. The rest here in the middle. Keep your fires burning all night. Sentinels will be posted.”
“Yeah?” Brandy grumbled. “What the hell do we do for wood? Plant acorns and wait?”
“Out there are two trees that are down. Take wood off them.
Pick up any fallen branches this side of the others. It’ll be wet, but it’s the best we can do. Do not go past a live tree. Lord Hammer isn’t sure he can project his protection that far.”
I didn’t pay much attention. Nobody did. It was warm there. I shed my pack and flung myself to the ground. I rolled around on the grass, grabbing handfuls and inhaling the newly mown hay scent.
There had to be some dread sorceries animating that circle. Nobody cared. The place was as cozy as journey’s end.
There is always a price. That’s how magic works.
Old Toamas lay back on his pack and smiled in pure joy. He closed his eyes and slept. Even Brandy said nothing about making him do his share.
Lord Hammer let the euphoria bubble for ten minutes.
Fetch started round the troop. “Brandy. You and Russ and Little, put your tent on that point. Will, Chenyth, Toamas, yours goes here. Kelpie . . .” And so on. When everyone was assigned, she erected her master’s black tent. All the while Lord Hammer sat his ruby-eyed stallion and stared northeastward. He showed the intensity of deep concentration. Was he reading the trail?
Nothing seemed to catch him off guard.
Where was he leading us? Why? What for? We didn’t know. Not a whit. Maybe even Fetch didn’t. Chenyth couldn’t charm a hint from her.
We knew two things. Lord Hammer paid well. And, within restrictions known only to himself, he took care of his followers. In a way I can’t articulate, he had won our loyalties.
His being what he was was ample proof we faced something grim, yet he had won us to the point where we felt we had a stake in it too. We wanted him to succeed. We wanted to help him succeed.
Odd. Very odd.
I have taken his gold, I thought, briefly remembering a man I had known a long time ago. He had been a member of the White Company of the Mercenaries Guild. They were a monastic order of soldiers with what, then, I had thought of as the strangest concept of honor . . .
What made me think of Mikhail? I wondered.
IV
Lord Hammer suddenly dismounted and strode toward Chenyth and me. I thought, thunderhead! Huge, black, irresistible.
I’m no coward. I endured the slaughterhouse battles of the Great Eastern Wars without flinching. I stood fast at Second Baxendala while the Tervola sent the savan dalage ravening amongst us night after night. I maintained my courage after Dichiara, which was our worst defeat. And I persevered at Palmisano, though the bodies piled into little mountains and so many men died that the savants later declared there could be no more war for generations. For three years I had faced the majestic, terrible hammer of Shinsan’s might without quelling.
But when Lord Hammer bore down on me, that grim death mask coming like an arrowhead engraved with my name, I slunk aside like a whipped dog.
He had that air. You knew he was as mighty as any force of Nature, as cruel as Death Herself. Cowering was instinctive.
He looked me in the eye. I couldn’t see anything through his mask. But a coldness hit me. It made the cold of that land seem summery.
He looked at Chenyth, too. Baby brother didn’t flinch.
I guess he was too innocent. He didn’t know when to be scared.
Lord Hammer dropped to one knee beside Toamas.
Gloved hands probed the old man’s ribs. Toamas cringed. Then his terror gave way to a beatific smile.
Lord Hammer strode back to where Fetch pursued her regular evening ritual of battling to erect their tent.
“You’re a damned idiot, girl,” she muttered. “You could’ve picked something you could handle. But no, you had to have a canvas palace. You knew the boys would just fall in love and stumble all over themselves to help. Then you hired lunks with the chivalry of tomcats. You’re a real genius, you are, girl.”
The euphoria had reached her too. Usually she was louder and crustier.
Chenyth volunteered. Leaving me to battle with ours.
That little woman could shame or cajole a man into doing anything.
I checked Toamas. He was sleeping. His smile said he was feeling no pain. “Thanks,” I threw Lord Hammer’s way, softly. No one heard, but he probably knew. Nothing escaped him.
When the tents were up Fetch chose wood-gathers. I was one of the losers.
“Goddamned, ain’t fair, Brandy,” I muttered as we hit the ice. “Them sumbitches get to sit on their asses back there . . .”
He laughed at me. He was that kind of guy. No empathy. And no sympathy even for himself.
Some lessons have to be learned the hard way.
The circle had turned me lazy. Malingering is a fine art among veterans. I decided to get the wood-gathering over with.
What I did was go after a prime-looking dead branch laying just past the first standing tree. I mean, how hard could it be to find your way back when all you had to do was turn around?
I whacked and hacked the branch out of the ice. All the while Brandy and the others were cussing and fussing behind me as they wooled a dead tree.
I turned to go back.
Nothing.
I couldn’t see a damned thing but ice, those gnarled old trees, and more ice. No circle. No woodcutters.
The only sound was the ice cracking on branches as the wind teased through the forest.
I yelled.
Chips of ice tinkled off the nearest tree. The damned thing was laughing! I could feel it. It was telling me that it had me, but it was going to play with me a while.
I even felt the envy of neighboring trees, the hatred of a brother, who had scored . . .
&
nbsp; I didn’t panic. I whirled this way and that, moving a few steps each direction, without surrendering to terror. Once a man has faced the legions of the Dread Empire, and has survived nights haunted by the unkillable savan dalage, there isn’t much left to fear.
I could hear the others perfectly when I turned my back. They were yelling at me, each other, and Lord Hammer. They thought I had gone crazy.
“Will,” Brandy called. “How come you’re jumping around like that?”
“Tree,” I said, “you’re going to lose this round.”
It laughed in my mind.
I started backing up. Dragging my branch. Feeling for any trace of footsteps I had left coming here.
Good thinking. But not good enough. The tree hadn’t exhausted its arsenal.
A branch fell. A big one. I dodged. My feet slipped on the ice. I cracked my head good. I wasn’t thinking when I got up. I started walking. Probably the wrong way.
I heard Brandy yelling. “Will, you stupid bastard, stand still!”
And Russ, “Get a rope, somebody. We’ll lasso him.”
I didn’t understand. My feet kept shuffling.
Then came the crackle of flames and stench of oily smoke. It caught my attention. I stopped, turned.
My captor had become a pillar of fire. It screamed in my mind.
Nothing should burn that fast, that hot. Not in that weather. But the damned thing went up like an explosion.
The smell of sorcery fouled the air.
The flames peaked, began dying. I could see through.
The circle and my friends glimmered before me. Facing the tree, a few yards beyond, stood Lord Hammer. He held one arm outstretched, fingers in a King’s X.
He stared at me. I peered into his eye slots and felt him calling. I took a step.
It was a long, long journey. I had to round some kink in the corridor of time before I got my feet onto the straight line path to safety.
I made it.
Still dragging that damned branch.
I stumbled. Lord Hammer’s arm fell. He caught me. His touch was as gentle as a lover’s caress, yet I felt it to my bones. I had the feeling that there was nothing more absolute.
I got hold of myself. He released me.
