Kedrigern Wanderland

by John Morressy

  In the same slow even voice, Hamarak said, “I don’t want to fight anybody. I just want to get to Dendorric.”

  This time the swordsman laughed aloud in a very unpleasant way. He gave a quick nod to his companion and they took a step toward the traveler. The merchant’s daughter shrieked. The merchant howled a prayer.

  The air rang with a sudden metallic shingg, and Hamarak’s staff was a staff no longer. He held a black, black sword, so intensely black that no light reflected from it except where the midday sun glinted off the edge of the blade.

  The robbers hesitated for an instant, and in that instant Hamarak was upon them like a hurricane sweeping a field of reeds. A single blow shattered the swords of the men before him, and then he turned to face the other attackers. A second blow, with the flat of the blade, laid out the other swordsman; a third splintered the spears of his last assailants.

  One man lay supine, a great purple lump rising on his temple. The others stood wringing their hands and gasping in pain from the shock of the traveler’s blows. Hamarak stepped to the side of the path, where he could keep all five in view, and raised the black sword. A woman’s voice filled the aft; it was cold with anger and dreadful to hear.

  “You have known the wrath of Panstygia, Mother of Darkness. She has chosen to be merciful. She will not be so merciful again,” said the voice of the blade.

  The brigands who were conscious whimpered in terror. The fifth stirred and moaned faintly.

  “In return for my mercy, answer me truthfully. Who rules in Dendorric?” the blade demanded.

  “Mergith, the wizard-king, rules there,” one of the thieves blurted, and another nodded vigorously to second his comrade’s answer.

  “Describe this Mergith.”

  “I’ve never seen him. Few people have, Mother of Darkness. I know nothing of his appearance, I swear it!” the man said, falling to his knees. “I’m a banished outlaw—I know nothing of Dendorric or its affairs!”

  “I’ve heard it said that his skin is made of brass, and no weapon can pierce it!” cried one of his companions.

  “A woman told me that Mergith has nine fingers on each hand, and iron talons on each finger! His eyes shoot forth flame when he’s angry!” the third added.

  The fourth robber, trembling, said, “And he has eyes before and behind! And on both sides! A dozen eyes, at least. Maybe more. Maybe hundreds!”

  “I never heard such nonsense,” said the blade crossly. “A fine lot of brigands you are, babbling like children after a mild thrashing.”

  “People say such things in Dendorric, Mother of Darkness, I swear they do!” the first brigand howled, groveling.

  “Then the people of Dendorric are as silly as you are, and I intend to have as little as possible to do with them,” Panstygia said. The other three were groveling by now, and the last brigand had sat up and was holding his head, groaning. “Oh, get away from here, all of you! Get out of my sight!” snapped the blade in exasperation.

  As the brigands scurried off, two of them supporting their groggy comrade, Hamarak asked, “Was I all right?”

  “You did very nicely, Hamarak. I was quite pleased,” the blade replied.

  “I’m glad I didn’t have to hurt anyone badly.”

  “I’ve told you several times that I do what I can to avoid unpleasantness. Don’t you trust me?”

  “I do trust you, Mother. It’s just that—”

  “Don’t address me as ‘Mother,’ the blade broke in angrily. “Step over behind those trees, please. I don’t want to carry on a private conversation within the hearing of a merchant and his household.”

  When they were well out of earshot of the wagons, Hamarak said, “Why can’t I call you ‘Mother’? You just called yourself ‘Panstygia, Mother of Darkness.’

  “I did, Hamarak. And that is precisely what I wish to be called in the future.”

  “What’s wrong with your own name? Louise is a nice name.”

  “It’s hardly a name for an enchanted sword. Really, Hamarak, you can be very obtuse.”

  Hamarak did not answer for a time. At length he said slowly, “You think I’m dumb.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You said I was something else, but you meant that I’m dumb. I could tell by the way that you said it.”

  “Well, you’re certainly not a wizard.”

  “I never said I was. I’m a farmer. That’s all I want to be, Mother. . . . No, Louise. Can’t I call you Louise?”

  With a sigh, the blade said, “When there’s no one else around, you may call me Louise. But in front of others, please address me as ‘Panstygia, Mother of Darkness,’ and try to sound respectful.”

  “I will. I really want to help you.”

  “I know you do, Hamarak, and I’m grateful.”

  “But I’m no wizard. I’m no swordsman, either.”

  “Now, Hamarak, I don’t want to hear any more talk like that. Whoever wields me is the finest swordsman in the world. It’s all part of the curse. Look how easily you defeated those brigands, and they were five against one.”

  After a pause, to remember and ponder his victory, Hamárak said, “I don’t want to be the finest swordsman in the world. I want to be a farmer. I want to have my own land, and men working for me, and good oxen to plow and pull stumps . . . and a house with two chimneys.”

  “You’ll have all that, Hamarak. I promise,” the sword said wearily.

  “A new plow, too?”

  “Yes, Hamarak. A lovely new one. And now I’m going to go back to being a staff, and you can rejoin your fellow travelers. We’ll talk again when Dendorric is in sight.”

  “What will I tell them?"

  “Under the circumstances, Hamarak, I should think you can tell them anything you please.”

  The air rang like a tapped silver bowl, and the black blade was once more a black staff. Hamarak checked his bearings and made his way back to the trail, only to find it empty. The merchant’s wagons had turned aside at the crossroad. Dust still hung in the air from the speed of their flight.

  Hamarak sat on a rock and took stock of the situation. If this was the merchant’s planned turning point, then Dendorric was two days’ walk from here. Without food or money, it would be an uncomfortable walk and a cheerless arrival, but the weather was fair, and there was plenty of fresh water along the way. There might be fruit trees, or wild berries. He idly scanned the ground, trying to raise his spirits, and gave a little grunt of pleased surprise at the sight of a purse lying near one of the fallen weapons. As he rose to take it up he noticed a scrip lying near it. The purse held a few coins, and the scrip contained nearly half a cooked hen and a fist-sized chunk of bread. Beaming, Hamarak returned to his seat on the rock and dined.

  He rose when he was done, hefted the purse in his hand and smiled at the comfortable clink of copper and silver. Tucking the purse in his belt, he gripped his staff, turned his face to the east, and set off for Dendorric.

  Two

  simple gifts

  THE LITTLE COTTAGE on Silent Thunder Mountain where dwelt the wizard Kedrigern and his wife Princess was a scene of domesticity at its coziest. A fire burned in the grate to ward off the chill of the autumn evening, and Princess and Kedrigern sat before it in comfortable chairs, each absorbed in the work at hand. The fire crackled; Princess hummed softly from time to time as she plied her needle; Kedrigern made occasional low noises of disapproval over a passage in the book on his lap. Save for the clatter of a dish or the rattle of cutlery from the kitchen, attesting to Spot’s industry with the dinner dishes, all else was still.

  “Well, that’s the lot of them,” said Princess, holding up a pale blue gown to inspect the two slits she had neatly hemmed in the back, between the shoulders. “And just in time, too.”

  Kedrigern grunted, but did not raise his eyes from the page.

  “It should be wonderful flying weather, as long as the winds aren’t too strong. I can’t wait to be up again. In a little while I won’
t be able to do anything but circle the house.” With a pleased little sigh, she gathered the garments that lay on either side of the chair and rose with them over her arm. “I think I’ll try these on. I want to be sure the wing-slits are roomy enough. I won’t be long.”

  Kedrigern nodded and made an almost inaudible sound of acknowledgement. Frowning, he turned a page of the huge folio volume.

  “What are you reading? It can’t be anything cheerful,” Princess observed.

  He looked up gloomily. “It’s not. It’s a chronicle I took from Arlebar’s house.”

  “Oh, chronicles,” said Princess with a dismissive flicker of her brows. “They’re dreadful reading. All about battles and plagues and famines and horrors. Why don’t you read a nice story about kings and queens and princes and princesses?”

  “That’s just what I’m reading, my dear: the history of Gurff the Strong and Alric the Sly, twin sons of Pollioc and Sming of the Land of the Jagged Mountains. It’s very depressing.”

  “Why do you read depressing things?”

  “One must keep up,” said the wizard fatalistically. For the first time, he noticed the garments draped over Princess’s ann. “Are you cleaning house?” he asked.

  “I’ve just finished altering these. Now I’m going to try them on.”

  “Good idea. It should be wonderful flying weather as long as the winds aren’t too strong.”

  “I was thinking the same thing.”

  “You must be impatient to be up and out. In a little while you won’t be able to do anything but circle the house.”

  “My thoughts exactly. And my very words. And now, if you’ll excuse me. . .“ Princess turned, and with a rapid flutter of her little wings, ascended a handsbreadth from the floor and flew gracefully from the room. Kedrigern returned his attention to the chronicle.

  He read on for a time, shaking his head and muttering his disapproval of the goings-on in the Land of the Jagged Mountains, and before he had turned a second page, Prim-

  cess was back. She stood before him in the pale blue gown she had just been working on. With a smile, she rose into the air and spun around, then landed lightly at his side.

  “Lovely, my dear,” he said appreciatively, taking her hand. “It’s absolutely lovely. Blue is a marvelous color for you. Is that a new gown?”

  “I’ve had it all along. I just wasn’t attracted to blue .

  somehow, green always seemed the proper color to wear. Habit, I suppose.”

  “Well, you look very nice in green, too.”

  “That’s fortunate, considering how long I was a toad.”

  “Now, now,” said the wizard, squeezing her hand gently, “no need to think of that. It’s all behind us. You are a spectacularly beautiful woman once again, and will remain so. And you even have those delightful little wings.”

  “It was a lot of work, altering my entire wardrobe to put in wing-slits, but worth it. Would you just check the fit of these, Keddie?”

  He laid the folio aside and stood to inspect Princess’s handiwork. The iridescent wings, nacreous and translucent, gossamer-thin yet firm to his cautious touch, jutted from twin slits set close together in the back of Princess’s gown. They were shaped like oversized butterfly wings; their tops came to just below her shoulders, their bottoms barely reached to her waist. At the base they thickened slightly, but even there they were no thicker than a leaf. It astonished Kedrigern to see such delicate wings lift a full-grown woman and transport her safely and gracefully through the air at a good rate of speed for considerable distances. True, Princess was slender and slight of frame, and these were magical wings; but he was impressed all the same. And they were quite supple, too. On cool evenings, Princess wore them folded flat against her back; they had the effect of a shawl. This practice was also good for the wings, which had a tendency to become brittle when exposed overiong to cold. They required only a brief fluttering at bçdtime and an occasional hop from room to room in order to remain in top condition.

  “A perfect fit, my dear,” Kedrigern announced. She turned, and he looked on her adoringly. She was in truth a beautiful woman, and the blue robe, which matched the color of her eyes; showed her gleaming black hair to great advantage. A silver circlet set with tiny diamonds ringed her brow. It glinted in the firelight to match the gleam of her wings.

  And not only was she a lovely and clever woman, she could work a number of powerful spells and was assidously learning new ones. All in all, Kedrigern reflected, a wizard could not ask for a more perfect wife. He was indeed a most fortunate man.

  His contentment must have been manifest in his expression, for Princess kissed him sweetly and said, “We have a lot to be grateful for, you and I.”

  “We certainly do. Just think—only last spring we were setting off in search of Arlebar.”

  “And the spring before that, I was still croaking like a toad.”

  “And the spring before that, we hadn’t even met.” Kedrigern shook his head thoughtfully at the wonder of it all. They settled into their chairs and sat in silent contemplation for a time, gazing into the sinking fire, and at last Princess asked, “Whatever became of that nice man who married us?”

  “The hermit, Goode . . . as far as I know, my dear, he still lives in that wood which slopes down to the sea. Pleasant location for a hermit.”

  “Keddie, do you realize . . . ?“

  “Yes, my dear?”

  “On our next anniversary, we’ll be married three years!”

  He looked up sharply and said in a soft astonished voice, “Why, so we shall. Fancy that! Three whole years, and it seems like only the other day I stopped at the Dismal Bog and saw you sitting on a lily pad. . . .“

  “I was weeping.”

  “So you were. Most piteously.”

  “But somehow, I knew you’d come. You were my only

  hope. No one could have despelled me but Kedrigern of Silent Thunder Mountain, master of counterspells.”

  “I’ve always meant to ask you how you heard of me. I know that word gets around, but it’s hard to imagine someone spreading my reputation in a bog. Not much point to it.”

  “I don’t know how I knew. It might have been part of the spell. I still can’t remember things from . . . from before.”

  “I’m sorry, my dear. But your memory will come back, I’m certain. Just a matter of time.”

  “It’s been well over two years since you despelled me! And I have no idea how long I was in the Dismal Bog before you found me.”

  He nodded sympathetically. “I understand your feelings. Really, I do. I only wish I could give you back your memories of your family as an anniversary present. I’d do it in a minute, if only I had some kind of clue to go on.”

  “There’s no need to talk of presents. What could I possibly want? I have practically everything a woman could desire.”

  “Sweet of you to say so,” said the wizard. They exchanged affectionate smiles, and after a brief silence, he went on, “As a matter of fact, though, it might not be such a bad thing to know nothing of one’s family history.” She turned a curious glance on him, and he explained. “Well, as you know, I was a foundling. It’s obvious that I’m of royal blood on one side and wizardry on the other, but I haven’t any names, or coats of arms, or family trees, or anything of that sort, and frankly, I’m just as pleased to have things as they are.”

  “You may be, but I’m not. I can’t understand you, Keddie. If your mother was a queen, or your father was a king, wouldn’t you like to know about them?”

  With a serious frown, Kedrigern shook his head. “My dear, royal families can be . . . understand, I’m speaking in the broadest generalities, and I’m sure your family are models of regal deportment . . . but royal families can

  be very unpleasant. Take this lot I’ve been reading about. Pollioc and Sming were a perfectly good king and queen until their twin sons grew up. Right pair of little stinkers those boys were, but parents never notice such things. He favored Gurff the S
trong and she idolized Alric the Sly, and before you could say “Gorboduc” there were daggers flashing, and poison in everything, and a nice little kingdom was reduced to absolute chaos. Now, I don’t for a moment think that your family—”

  “I should certainly hope not,” said Princess with hauteur. “Besides, I don’t think there were any boys in the family. I seem to recall a sister, but no brothers.”

  “That’s a good sign. You didn’t remember anything like that before.”

  “Well, I can’t recall names, or faces. I might even be remembering a fairy tale. Princesses always have sisters in fairy tales.”

  “True. But sisters can be difficult, too. I was reading about an old king of Albion . . . had three daughters, gave them everything, and they turned on him. Divided up his kingdom and kicked the old man out in a howling storm with only a fool and a lunatic for company. There’s family sentiment for you.”

  “I remember that story. Wasn’t there one daughter .

  Camellia, I think. . . no, Cornelia. . . who came back to see him and was nice to him?”

  “Yes, the youngest one—Cordelia, that was her name— she came back, but she brought her husband’s army with her. I suppose that’s how members of that family always traveled. And the upshot of it was that everyone died. One sister poisoned the other and then stabbed herself, and one of their boyfriends had Cordelia killed, and it was all too much for the poor old father. Awful doings. And yet they’re tame when you compare them to the goings-on at the cQurt of Denmark. I wouldn’t touch that lot with a ten-foot wand.”

  At his final word, Princess’s expression brightened and she turned to her husband with a sudden eager expression;

  but he was gazing dolefully into the fireplace. She settled back, smiling, and put her feet up on the fender, content to wait. After a time she said, “Keddie, I’ve been thinking. There is something you could give me for our anniversary.”

  “Delighted to hear it, my dear! What would you like—a nice warm set of knitted wing-covers?”

  “No. I want a wand.”