by Dave Freer
Meb shrugged. “I am just me. That’s all. I call myself Meb. I have been told my birth name was Anghared. I came from a place called Tasmarin, where the dragons rule. They told me here that I had magic and I must be of the House of Lyonesse. And then they decided I didn’t and wasn’t. They do their magic by patterns and diagrams and models and calculations and rituals. I don’t even know how to start that. It comes to me sometimes, because I need it, and because I dream it. And now you see me.” She concentrated hard on not being seen and walked away. He stared, blinked, rubbed his eyes. Reached out to where she’d been. Just behind him she tapped him on his shoulder, willing herself to be seen again. “And now you don’t.”
He turned and stared. She dug out her juggling balls, simply because they helped her think. Began tossing them one-handed, the other hand holding the axe. “If,” she said, “we just wanted to go through your woods, we could. You wouldn’t have even known we were there. And if I was interested in conquering and killing, I could have come unseen and sent the muryan to deal with you in your sleep.”
She passed the axe to the other hand, and caught the balls with it. “But we were looking for you, because I was told you were the right people to look for. That you were, of all the humans, closest to the Land.”
The hairy man nodded. “I will take you to the wisewoman and the shamans. They said…disaster had come. They said all the Ways were open and invaders who have no respect for our forest will be coming soon. We watched for that. Not two women.”
“M’lady,” said Neve, timidly. “Do you mind if I carry the axe? It’s really scary when you toss it up and catch the balls. I’ve seen how sharp it is.”
The Wudewasa man smiled and nodded. “But a woman with a big axe and balls…makes men nervous.”
They were led through the forest, carefully skirting around several places where the trail seemed to go. Someone had plainly gone ahead, because the wisewoman who seemed to lead the tribe, as much as they had a leader, was waiting with the two shamans in their equivalent of a reception room—a huge hollow tree set at the end of a double row of mossy rocks, with a wooden chair carved into the wood itself. It was occupied by the Wudewasa’s wisewoman, with the two shamans with their drums and bones having to settle for logs.
The wisewoman’s hair was white. There was a vast amount of it, and barring the addition of a willow catkin, she didn’t have any twigs or leaves in it. She was tiny and frail, and attended by a young girl, because moving was obviously painful for her. Her brown eyes, peering out of a mass of wrinkles, were rheumy and she blinked a lot. But her wits and tongue were still sharp. “I thought you said it was a woman carrying the weight of the Land. I’m seeing two girls, who couldn’t carry more than a peck of dirt.”
“That shows that you need look a lot more carefully, Mortha,” said one of the mossy stones unwinding itself into a spriggan. “We know, the muryan know, the knockyan know, the piskies and, if you look properly, you’ll find you do, too. Did you think it comes with a fine horse and a coronet and troops of soldiers? You’re in for a sad disappointment.”
The silver-haired woman didn’t move. “Those are holy rocks.”
The spriggan snorted: “Then maybe you should count them more often. To not notice there was an extra one might be seen as disrespect,” he said tartly, showing no deference at all for her age or the rocks. “A few minutes ago you were twittering in fear because the Vanar were coming. Wondering how best to keep them from cutting your trees for charcoal or ship timbers, like last time. Now you’re fussing about the size of the help.”
The wisewoman kept her dignity…barely. “We were hoping…for what is asked, that we’d get something in return. Some troops of fighting men with iron swords, against their iron axes.”
“She seems to have odd ideas,” said the spriggan, jerking a thumb at Meb. “Believes in giving something back in exchange for what she is given. The old kings of Lyonesse would be very shocked.” He seemed to enjoy that idea.
Meb sighed. “Do you mind stopping this talking over my head? I don’t know what is going on, and I think if I am going to help I will need to.”
“All the Ways are open,” said the wisewoman, Mortha. “All our enemies will come. And while many pass through the forest without much searching or effect, the first here, the soothsayers say, will be the Vanar. They’ve cut out most of their own forest. Now they want ours.”
“It was the Vanar who burned my village and our boats,” said Neve. “Please, m’lady. You’ve got to stop them.”
“They burn what they can’t carry away,” said Mortha. “The soothsayers say the sea will be black with their dragon ships this time.”
“Dragon ships?” The dragons Meb knew would make poor boats. Or even poor pullers of boats, if this was something like a donkey cart.
“Their ship’s prows are carved to look like dragons or great monstrous serpents. They come from Vanaheim, where it is cold and the trees don’t grow well. So they come for ours. And anything else they can find,” said Neve, quite used to explaining by now. “They’re not quite as big as the Fomoire, and they don’t have much magic, but there are lots of them and they go berserk when they fight. You have to kill them to stop them.”
“They chew mushrooms that make them mad,” said Mortha.
“Where will they beach?” asked Meb. “Can we stop them getting to the land at all?”
“My Gamma Elis said that in King Angbord’s day they had watchtowers along the coast and warning bonfires. The troops would ride out from Dun Tagoll, Dun Argol, Dun Telas, Dun Carfon and fight them on the beaches. There was talk of having catapults to sink their ships while they were still at sea. But the people of Lyonesse never did it, and then the towers fell or were burned after King Geoph died.”
The wisewoman sighed. “The only thing that’ll hold them on land is horsemen, horsemen who fight to order, with long lances, and good massed bowmen. Our forest people…We can ambush and fight in the dark, but we cannot hold them back. And we’ve seen what Medraut does: fight a quick skirmish and run for Dun Tagoll, and leave those outside to feel their wrath.”
The spriggan looked thoughtful. “They fear magic, though. Especially women’s magic. They’d be more afraid of a woman mage than a male one. And, the truth be told, they treat us with fear and respect. That’ll not keep them from the forests, and they have too much iron for us. It’s a slow poison to our kind, and even being close to it in concentrated or purified form for too long weakens us. If the Lady Land asks it, tribes of piskies can mislead them for a while. And we can look very large. The muryan…well, if they slow down enough, the muryan can and will overwhelm anything. And neither iron nor anything else holds much threat to them. The knockyan, well, let’s be honest, they don’t really fight or do more than play jokes on those who wander underground. They have tunnels everywhere, of course.”
“And they will all stand against the invaders?” asked Meb.
“If you tell them to, yes.” The spriggan pulled a face. “Of course…it’s not quite as easy as that.”
“No,” said Meb, “that would all be too simple, wouldn’t it?”
“Exactly, and if life were simple, we’d all have warm palaces to live in and strawberries to eat every day, in winter too. But it isn’t. See, we’re yours to command, but you must command us.”
“I’m telling you to resist the invaders,” said Meb obligingly.
“And I will,” said the spriggan. “But I’m bound to a certain area. Bound within seven miles of my place. And you’ve told me. But you’ll have to tell each of the spriggans. We tend to live three or four together. The knockyan, well, they talk and pass it on. By now I‘d guess stories about you and your juggling, and having knockyan babies on your lap, will have spread from one end of Lyonesse to the other, and are being told to others. Other spriggans, some human miners too. The muryan will defend you if they are where you are, and will attack if you tell them to. But there are tens of thousands of queens. Each only controls
their own nest. As for the piskies…well, they’re family groups. And they don’t keep their mind on the task very easily. They’ll enjoy misleading and mazing the Vanar. But sooner or later the Vanar will find out how to counter that. It’s best saved for when you need it. And by then it’ll be too late, I shouldn’t wonder.”
Meb sighed. “The real wonder is how cheerful you are. Tell me. Do I command anyone else? Merrows? Do you have them here?”
“Well, there are merpeople, but they live in the sea, and are no part of the land. And they’re not good to deal with.”
“Even so,” said Meb, “I think that’s what we’re going to have to try and do, and quickly because I’d rather not have more mad people here. Most of the ones here seem quite mad enough already.”
***
The gilded crows gave Aberinn a wide view of Lyonesse, and a headache. Too many images to process. He had as yet not found any sign of the two women. They probably had not gotten very far before falling prey to what young women roaming Lyonesse without protectors would fall prey to. He felt Medraut’s reaction to them simply too extreme. But then Medraut alternated between believing in the prophecy and believing, somehow, that it was all a plot against him. Either by the mage or one of the factions of nobles who still squabbled over Lyonesse like real crows over a corpse. Well, he’d had his own suspicions about the girl. It appeared at most she was adept with a knife and a few magic tricks—probably prepared by some adept for her, to be displayed suitably.
Anyway, they were dead and gone and Lyonesse faced an influx as she had never suffered before. As yet, the gilded crows reported no major invasions. But they would come soon. The land would suffer, fortresses would fall. And somehow he must work out just what had happened to the Changer.
***
Meb traveled with an escort of forest people, down a wooded valley, to the coast. They had provided her with a jacket of coarse brown cloth, set with fresh twigs and branches, but it could not come close to their camouflage. They could freeze and look like trees or shrubs or just the branches of one. They were experts at not moving suddenly, and at sticking to places where the light was broken with shadows. And for most of the journey down to the coast, that was adequate. Neither Aberinn’s gilded crows nor anything else could possibly have seen them. Meb was surprised at how many other people—peasants mostly—they did see. Here a nervous group of ex-soldiers from some foreign place eking out a living, there a solitary fisherman working a stream. Lyonesse was a rich country for those needing to live off the land. It made her realize that the various fay had probably worked quite hard to get her and Neve that far without meeting anyone. She was realistic enough to realize that such a meeting would only have been an ugly experience, needing the axe and luck to survive. They crossed several open patches during the night, but the problem came the next day, when they were close enough to smell the sea, and cover was sparse.
And the gilded crow was circling.
It was probably just trying to gain height. From here in the tree shadows, Meb could see that it didn’t fly as well as a real crow might.
She wished it would go away. Wished it with real urgency and irritation. Wondered if she could simply “hide” them all, and whether this would work to deceive Aberinn’s magical-mechanical creatures. Just wished it would hurry up and go away, that flying should be for real birds.
And, as they watched and waited, a real bird buzzed the contrivance. And then another. Smaller than the gilded crow, of course, but far more agile. She’d seen blackbirds pack a hawk like this. And now there were more birds, mobbing the crow. The gilded crow tried to flee them, but even the sparrows were as fast as it was. And it was as if they’d realized that although the interloper might be bigger, it was fairly helpless and far from as agile as they were. Then more birds came and they mobbed it down.
It crash-landed awkwardly. The birds all flew off about their business.
The crow plainly tried to fly again. And the birds drove it down. “Good,” said Meb. “It can walk back to Dun Tagoll, and tell Aberinn what sore feet it has.”
“You’re a very powerful mage,” said one of her escort, fearfully.
Meb swallowed. “Birds do that to foreign interlopers from time to time.” Silently, to herself, she said, “but if I made it happen…I wish you all lots of worms, or seeds or fruit, and a safe nest for your help. I don’t want them spying.”
They took her to the water’s edge. And she had absolutely no idea what to do. She’d had the idea that the merpeople would come to her, the way the others had.
And the waves remained…waves.
“Is anyone listening?”
No mermaids appeared dancing on the water.
The sea just sighed against the rocks.
She reached down to it, picking up a handful and letting it dribble through her fingers, sighing back at it. She wondered how the spirit of the sea was doing with the lord of the mountains. Groblek had had no limitation to planes and places…
“And neither does the sea,” whispered a voice. “It is many seas, but it is all aspects of one Sea.” The face in the foam tracery looked…like that of someone who had forgotten to do their hair. “Forgive me. I am a little…busy,” said the sea.
“Oh dear. Groblek?”
“No, you were quite right. We’ve found ways…it has been some years. But we have a child, and he is never still unless he is asleep.”
Years? Fionn had said that time ran differently in some places. How was he after…years? Was Díleas old? She swallowed. “I was hoping to negotiate for some help. We’re expecting to be attacked from the sea.”
“The Vanar. Good seamen. Quite respectful,” said the Spirit of the Sea.
“Oh. But we can’t have them here, lady. Please.”
“No. They don’t belong here. A few are relatively harmless. But many would upset your dragon’s balance.”
“He…he still works on that?”
Lady Skay seemed amused. “Sometimes.”
“Is he…well?”
“He’s a dragon. They don’t usually get sick. But he, and that black and white dog, seemed well last time they went paddling in my water.”
“Thank you. Thank you so much,” said Meb, smiling tremulously.
“It seems a fair repayment. You carried similar information for me. And I will deal with the Vanar fleet. Have no fear of them. Or any further troubles with mermen. Call on me again…I must go.”
Meb could swear she heard a crash somewhere. It could have been a wave breaking.
***
Meb turned away from the sea, to the Wudewasa and the spriggan waiting on the shore behind her.
“They’re not usually interested in talking to people,” said the spriggan. “I don’t know why, but they’re a nasty bunch, this lot of sea-people. We’ll just have to fight the Vanar on land.”
“Um. Didn’t you see her?” asked Meb.
“Was there a mermaid?” asked the spriggan.
If the Spirit of the Sea did not want them to see her…well, who was Meb to tell anyone about it. “We can stop worrying about the Vanar,” said Meb. “Now we just need to deal with any other invaders.”
“Oh. All it needed was for you to splash your hand in the water,” said the Wudewasa warrior. “We could have done that.”
“But you didn’t,” said Meb, with a sweet smile. “So it’s a good thing that I did. And you never know, it might not have worked for you. Actually, I am certain it wouldn’t. Now, I think we need to work out where the next threat is, and deal with that. Those soothsayers are supposed to predict these things, aren’t they? Because if I have to go and ask the muryan and others for help in person, I will have to get there in time to do it. And in between I’d like to try and fit in some sleeping and some eating, which I have found make me think better, and be better tempered, too. I daresay Wudewasa and spriggans don’t work like that, but we spoiled fishing village royalty do.”
She’d made them laugh, which Finn had said was half th
e battle won. She had a feeling it might be the easy half.
CHAPTER 21
Fionn had flown wild rides through storm and chaos on far too many worlds. He’d been at sea and shipwrecked in more tempests than most people have days to their lives. Never had he been on such an angry sea. It was not just an angry sea, with waterspouts and waves taller than the Busse itself…but it was also a beautiful day, with the sun shining and not much more than a breath of wind.
They were rowing, as fast as possible, toward the fiords of Vanar. The sea was pushing them, them and all the other surviving vessels, back toward the land. Fionn was seriously weighing the possibilities of taking to the air, along with Díleas, and never mind those who saw the sailor turn into a dragon. Their chances of living to tell the story were scant. But it did seem that so far, anyway, this particular vessel had been spared the worst. Even the waterspouts had sheared away and gone to sink other less fortunate ships. The sea did not stop its wildness inside the fiord. It seemed to be trying to spit out, or wreck, as many Vanar ships as possible. The steersman of this vessel, very sensibly, beached it on the first bit of land that wasn’t cliff. It made a few holes in the ship but the fury of the waves had driven her bow well up onto the steep rocky, grassy slope. They all scrambled off her anyway, all wanting to be away from the angry water.
“It’s as if the Goddess Rán has taken against us. And we give her thralls and branntwein every year. Ai, she’s a capricious one,” said the steersman, looking glumly at the ship. “Come on, lads. Let’s see if we can haul her up a bit. Or the sea’ll have her tail off, and we’ll not be getting more timber to build another like her. Not from Lyonesse anyway.”
Fionn agreed with the last part, even if he called to Díleas and then sneaked off among the boulders that had fallen from the cliffs above, rather than help with the hauling.
He was also sure that it hadn’t been all Rán’s—as she was called locally—idea. This was his Scrap. It had her mark of total overkill about it, he thought ruefully. She’d got on with Lady Skay of the sea, and with Groblek of the mountains.
