by John Dalmas
"The next morning they went back in with packhorses and a litter, and brought out the female troll, the one the pig killed. And those parts of the others the lightning had left. She was eight feet four from heels to crown. Jeremid skinned her. Figured to boil the meat off her bones, hers and what little they brought out of the others.
"When the hide is dry and the bones clean, he'll take them around and show them, at Teklapori and all the county seats. Charge folks to see them-a copper for kids, five for grownups-and give the money to the widows and orphans. Might be he'll show them here at the inn."
Rillor had been listening from halfway across the room, and looked at the twins; they were awed. When Ohns spoke, it was in an undertone, almost a whisper. "He's still there! On that farm! Can we go there?"
Rillor nodded. "Absolutely. Stay here. I'll go ask how to find it."
He got up from the table and started over to the man who'd told the story. Rillor had never imagined such a break. It could simplify his job greatly.
***
When they'd eaten, they left at once, riding north now, pushing their horses hard. It was night when they reached the side road leading to Jeremid's; Rillor almost missed it in the darkness. Half an hour later they saw the house, lamplight still showing from a window. The farm dogs began to bark.
The three rode in, their horses stamping and sidling, spooked by the circling dogs. The riders waited in the saddle, sabers drawn should the dogs overreach. A man with an arm in a sling came onto the porch, another man following. The first spoke sharply to the dogs, which backed away and sat down watchfully. "Who are you?" the man asked.
"My name's Rillor. Are you Jeremid?"
"That's me. What can I do for you this time of night?"
"These are my brothers." He gestured. "Ohns and Dohns. We've been visiting relatives in Asmehr. Now we're traveling back west to Miskmehr. We heard at the Crossroads Inn that Macurdy's visiting you, so we rode up here. We've been hearing about him all our lives. We hope to shake his hand."
"You're a few days too late. You eat yet?"
"At the Crossroads, and some dried beef in the saddle. We need to be back on our way again. We shouldn't have turned off up here in the first place, I suppose. We'll make up the time by riding at night." He paused. "Maybe we could see the troll skin while we're here."
"You're welcome to," Jeremid told them. "It won't take long. The bones are cleaned, too. Those jaws and teeth are something to see! Your horses can have a feed of hay while they wait. Cost you a teklota each."
"That's way more than we'd heard," Rillor said.
"For lads it's a lot cheaper," Jeremid answered. "Tell you what: two teklota for the three of you. These troll's made two widows and a double handful of orphans. The money goes to them."
"Well, all right. That'd be interesting." Rillor swung down from his saddle, the twins following. Jeremid's servant took the horses' reins, and led them toward a shed.
Jeremid had heard more than enough to arouse suspicions. These people didn't sound like Miskmehri, or Asmehri for that matter. Their speech was refined, and lacked the nasality of Miskmehr, or the slight gutturality of Asmehr. And they'd given in way too soon on the price.
He didn't take his guests into the house proper, but to a built-on workshop in back. There, using splinters from a box, he lit two lamps from the lantern he carried. The troll skin had been removed like a mink skin-worked off the carcass like a glove. Then it had been stretched carefully on a frame made of saplings, to dry properly and minimize distortion. The hair side was in, to help the skin dry, but there was no question of what had worn it in life. And it was big! A large tear, carefully sewn shut, showed where the boar's tusks had ripped open groin and belly.
The bones were the most impressive though. Those of the hands had been reassembled, fastened together with copper wire. Of the rest, most lay on the floor, carefully arranged as in life, waiting. The skull and jawbone, with their large fighting teeth, had also been wired together, and lay on a workbench. Beside them lay an enormous thighbone, much larger than those on the floor. Odds and ends of large vertebrae, ribs and so on lay in a pile.
Jeremid held the lantern. The visitors were clearly impressed. He was as interested in them as they were in the skin and bones. As the three examined the skull, Jeremid groped through his memories. Who did the twins remind him of? And red hair…
The truth struck him all at once, unlikely as it seemed. It explained everything-speech, manners, everything.
"That was interesting," said the one in charge. "It makes the story we heard all the more real."
"Yep," said Jeremid. "A story like that can use a little proof."
"Macurdy went north, they said."
"That's right."
"Too bad. I wish we were." He turned to the twins. "Time to go, boys. Maybe we'll have another chance sometime."
***
Jeremid watched them ride off into the night. Boys. That clinched it. Not three brothers. A commander and his men-Macurdy's twin sons-sent off by Sarkia to follow Macurdy. He wished he had two good arms, and trained men at hand. He'd have disarmed the trio and questioned them. As it was…
For one of the few times in his life, Jeremid didn't know what to do. Gather some of his century maybe, and follow? North, for that was the way they'd go. But gathering men would take a couple of days. And the three had remounts and packhorses, so they were probably traveling hard, and camping where night found them. By the time his men could catch up, if they could, they'd be at least two days ride into Visdrossa, a dependency of Kormehr. And neither Visdrossans nor Kormehri would appreciate Kullvordi cavalry deep inside their country.
On the other hand, Jeremid told himself, what harm might those three do? Odds are, Sarkia sent them to talk Varia into coming south with Macurdy. And if Sarkia's being straight about this… Hard to tell about her.
And if she's not being straight, Macurdy and Vulkan can handle it. Be a shame, though, if anything happened to those twins. Break Macurdy's heart again.
17 On the Road to Duinarog
Macurdy and Vulkan crossed the border north into Visdrossa, turned east into Indrossa, then north again toward Inderstown and the Big River. The region was more prosperous than Macurdy remembered, and the roads and inns were better, especially as they neared the Big River. There were more travelers, and wagon traffic.
They traveled long days, now much of the time under Vulkan's invisibility spell, to avoid slows and complications. Vulkan drew most of his energy from the Web of the World-that was routine for him-pausing now and then to feed on roots and tubers along the road. Every three or four nights he'd nab a lamb or calf, or young pig.
Macurdy was surprised that Vulkan ate pig. ‹Numer-ous human tribes eat monkeys,› Vulkan replied mildly, ‹and humans are ensouled apes.› Leaving Macurdy to speculate on how he'd learned about monkeys, let alone the tribes that ate them. Vulkan had identified himself as a bodhisattva, but Macurdy had little idea of what a bodhisattva was, and less about the knowledge that might be part of it.
Macurdy too drew on the Web of the World, supplementing it daily with food purchased at some village, or a meal at an inn. His stomach complained when he went too long between meals, but it was adjusting. From time to time he got off and walked a mile or two to rest Vulkan-speed-marched, striding rapidly and trotting by spells to avoid slowing them excessively. Several times Vulkan stopped to swim briefly in a stream, Macurdy joining him, and when they stopped to sleep, Macurdy groomed him, to prevent saddle sores.
When Vulkan did drop his invisibility cloak, the result was much as it had been on their ride through Tekalos. But they outpaced reports of their moving north, and Vulkan avoided showing himself in villages and towns. When Macurdy needed to buy food, he'd slide from Vulkan's back as they approached a village or farm, and walk the last stretch.
Macurdy could afford inns, but he felt a certain urgency, and preferred to ride late. Only once did they encounter an inn when he was ready to stop. Usu
ally they rode till after dark, and the days were long in that season. To Macurdy, Vulkan's endurance seemed magical. Often Macurdy bedded down in a barn or hay shed, for farms were numerous in the northern Rude Lands. Once, when soaked by rain, they'd traveled all night, letting the sun dry them in the morning.
Despite Vulkan's short legs and heavy burden, they made excellent progress.
***
Rillor and the twins pushed their horses hard. They did not, however, cover the miles they might have. Rillor's weaknesses included impatience and a love of comfort-not always compatible-and here there was no one to discipline him. The night after leaving Jeremid's, they hadn't yet cleared the forested Kullvordi Hills, so they slept in the woods. And as they'd ridden late, he decided not to trouble with setting up and breaking down camp. Instead they slept exposed beneath the trees.
Not long after midnight, a squall line passed through, and soaked them. Cold, bedraggled, disgusted, they rode the rest of the night. And to warm themselves from the Web of the World was beyond their training, and quite possibly their talents.
Camping had other drawbacks than weather. They'd have to hobble their horses instead of picketing them, so they could forage for food. And while foraging, even hobbled horses will scatter and be hard to find and catch. Also there was the matter of taking the tent down, folding it, and repacking the packsaddles.
Guardsmen drilled such things repeatedly in training, but still they took time.
So mostly they stopped at inns overnight, or occasionally a farm, sometimes well before dark. Then they rose at dawn and ate a quick breakfast. They'd be in trouble if they wore their horses out, Rillor said, and he was right, but on the road he pushed them hard.
They made excellent time, by normal standards, but they could have done better.
***
Macurdy and Vulkan crossed the Big River to Parnston, in the Outer Marches. Macurdy rode a ferry, while Vulkan swam, his body unseeable but his wake quite visible. If one looked. It was the odd sort of sight people tend to suppress, denying their senses.
Vulkan "talked" less than he had early on, but still from time to time he spoke at some length, usually in response to a comment or question by his rider. On the first morning north of Parnston, Macurdy was worrying about the powers they were up against in the Voitusotar.[1] "The voitar I've known were all a lot more talented than me," he said.
‹What of Corporal Trosza, of whom you told me?›
Macurdy frowned. "Trosza wasn't typical."
‹In what respects was he not typical?›
Macurdy regarded the question for a moment. "Actually he probably was fairly typical. What I should have said was, my voitik instructors at Schloss Tannenberg and Voitazosz were a lot more talented than me. But people like them-masters and adepts-are what I'm worried about the most."
‹Concern is appropriate, for they are indeed formidable. But in some respects less than you imagine.›
Macurdy didn't reply. He sensed there was more to come.
‹Their psychic powers are narrow. As straightforward magicians, they are not exceptional. I doubt very much that any approach Sarkia in breadth and flexibility of magical response to situations. I speak, of course, of Sarkia as she was before her decline. And probably none of them approach you in psychic perception. Their great superiority is in major sorceries, sorceries requiring time and favorable circumstances to engineer, so to speak.› He paused. ‹I do not refer to arrangements or alliances with demons or the devil. Neither of which exist in the occult sense, though some voitar-and some humans and ylver-can behave quite satanically. What voitik adepts, and particularly masters have is an ability to manipulate astral matter, and susceptible forces of nature known as elementals. A talent largely absent among human beings and ylver.›
"Wait a minute!" Macurdy said. "How do you know all that?"
‹I have access to areas of general knowledge, with regard to sentient beings in this particular pair of universes. It is attributable in part to my status as a bodhisattva, and to those areas of knowledge I was given access to in preparation for my task. Knowledge now clarifying for me as my task clarifies.
‹Beyond that it derives from my own observations of humans and ylver.› He turned his head, regarding Macurdy with one red eye. ‹But what I know of the Voitusotar is partly from one of my own land. He has paid no attention to them for some time now, and they were never his focus. But at one time he made a minor study of them. Through proxies. Your own observations fit his knowledge nicely.›
"You mean there are giant boars across the Ocean Sea?"
‹Two of them. One in the west-west central, actually-and one in the east. We communicate from time to time, as the notion takes us.›
It was Macurdy's turn to be silent. He had things to ponder, and he wasn't much for pondering.
***
Several days later, at a village three miles south of Ternass, they encountered a half-starved child, seated on a bench outside a tavern. One leg was crudely splinted, and a crude crutch leaned beside him. He was, Macurdy thought, about ten years old. The boy's aura told him what the problem was-a crush fracture of the lower leg, both tibia and fibula. The pictures embedded in the aura showed Macurdy more than enough, and the event that broke the leg was not the worst.
Clearly the leg would mend crooked and short; the boy would be seriously crippled. Macurdy went over and squatted in front of him. "What happened?" he asked softly.
"I got run over by my dad's cart," the boy answered. His voice was a soft monotone.
"It must be a heavy cart."
The boy pointed at it, a dozen yards away. It held a dozen large burlap sacks of coal. A tall jaded mule stood harnessed to it, hitched to a rail.
"It was piled high with wheat sacks that day," the boy said.
"How did he happen to run over you?"
The answer was little more than whispered. "It was an accident."
"How come you're here, instead of at home?"
The boy said nothing.
"Is it all right if I heal it? I'm a healer."
The boy looked at him, but did not meet his eyes. "You better ask my dad."
"In there?" Macurdy gestured at the tavern.
The boy nodded.
"How will I know him?"
"He's big, and his clothes has got coal dust on them."
"Thank you," Macurdy said, "I'll ask him," and went inside.
The Marches were prosperous enough that glass was commonplace, and the tavern was decently lit, through windows less dirty than they might have been. There were only four customers at that hour. Macurdy spotted the carter and walked over to him. "What are you drinking?" he asked cordially.
Whatever it was, the man had had a few already. He scowled at Macurdy, who as usual had left his sword on a saddle ring. "I never seen you before," the carter said. "You got no business with me."
"I used to be well known around here, when you were young. Really well known at Ternass. You just don't recognize me."
"When I was young, you weren't hardly born."
"I'm a lot older than I look. My name's Macurdy."
The man glowered. The barkeeper and the other patrons had been more or less aware of the conversation; now the name Macurdy locked their attention. One of them in particular stared. His stubbly beard was gray, his hair getting that way. "God love me, it is him!" he murmured. "Or his double!"
Macurdy ignored them. "I saw your boy on the bench out front," he said to the carter. "He's going to be a cripple. Unless I heal him."
"He's none of your business, and neither am I."
Macurdy reached into his belt pouch and took out several silver teklota. "I thought I'd take him to Ternass with me, heal him, and leave him at the fort."
The man's voice raised. "Trying to buy him, are you! Healing's no part of what you got in mind! Get out of here before I call the constable!"
Macurdy grabbed the man's heavy wool shirt front and jerked him close. "Call the constable," he hissed,
"and I'll tell him what you accused me of. In front of witnesses."
The carter's defiance took a shriller sound. "They heard nothing! They're friends of mine!"
He looked around. No one said a word. They weren't his friends; they knew him too well. Macurdy let the man go and turned to the tavernkeeper. "Drinks for everyone; whatever they're drinking." He gestured at the carter. "Him too. I'll have ale."
The middle-aged tavernkeeper had never set eyes on the Lion of Farside before, but it seemed to him this was the man. He began to draw drinks.
The carter had turned away from Macurdy, to sip from the mug he already had. Macurdy rested a heavy hand on his shoulder. "I'm a wizard, you know. I can look at the boy and see what's happened to him. All of it."
The man didn't speak, didn't look at him, only took another swallow of ale. His aura had darkened as if with smoke from the coal in his cart.
"You got a wife?"
The head shook no.
"Died, did she?"
The head nodded, the aura darkening further. Macurdy wondered what she'd died of. "Ah," he said. "It's got to be hard, bringing up a boy without a woman in the house. Working all day to buy food. Hardly anything left for a drink after a hard day of loading, unloading, carrying… I bet you had it tough when you were a boy, too, eh?"
A remarkable tear swelled and overflowed, running down a grimy cheek to lose itself in stubble. Lightly, Macurdy clapped the man's shoulder. "Tell you what," he said. "I'll give you this gold imperial to close the deal. In front of these witnesses. I'll take him off your hands-" he paused "-and off your conscience. I'll take him to the fort, to their infirmary, heal him body and soul, and leave him with the commandant. They'll see he's taken care of, and you'll never see him again." Again he paused. "Never trouble him again."
Once more the man faced him, somehow deflated now, defeated. He put out a hand for the coin.
"You've got to say it out loud," Macurdy told him, "so we can all hear it. Say 'The deal is closed. I'll never trouble him again.' "
