Werenight

by Turtledove, Harry

  Catuvolcus ducked under the hurtling priest. He swung up his sword two-handed, brought it down in a cut to cleave Gerin from crown to chin. Sparks flew as the Fox blocked the stroke. His arms felt numb to the elbow. He ducked under another wild slash, edged bronze whizzing bare inches above his head.

  His own sword bit into the Trokmê’s belly. He ripped it free to parry the lunge of one of the drivers. The northerner seemed confused at facing a lefthanded swordsman. Gerin beat down another tentative thrust, feinted at his enemy’s throat, and guided his sword into the barbarian’s heart. More surprise than pain on his face, the Trokmê swayed and fell. He gasped for air he could not breathe, tried to speak. Only blood gushed from between his lips.

  The Fox looked round for more fight, but there was none. Van leaned on his blade and puffed; he watched the shrilling, scrambling eunuchs with distaste. Half the proud crest of his helm was sheared away. His armor was drenched with gore, but none was his. Red hair matted by redder blood, the head of one barbarian stared glassily at its body. The ghastly corpse lay across another, whose entrails and pouring blood befouled the gentle meadow of the mosaic floor.

  Horror on her face, Elise came up to survey the carnage. With a flourish, Van plucked her dagger from its victim’s throat and handed her the dripping weapon. “As fine a throw as I’ve ever seen, and as timely, too,” he said. She held it a moment, then threw it to the floor as hard as she could and gagged, reeling back against the pews.

  Gerin put a hand on her shoulder to comfort her. She clung to him and sobbed. He murmured wordless reassurance. He was nearly as much an accidental warrior as was she, and recalled only too well puking up his guts in a clump of bushes after his first kill. Now he was just glad he was still among the living, and tried not to think of the ruined humanity at his feet.

  He offered his canteen to Elise so she could rinse her mouth. She took it with a muffled word of thanks.

  A squad of temple guardsmen rushed down the main aisle, brushing aside the plainsmen (who had watched the fight with interest) and their guide. The guard captain, his corselet gilded to show his rank, shook his head when he heard Gerin’s story, though Saspir confirmed it. Tugging his beard, the officer, whose name was Etchebar, said, “To slay a priest of the god, even to save your own lives, is foully done. Surprised am I Biton did not smite you dead.”

  “Slay?” Van shouted. “Who in the five hells said anything about slaying a priest, you jouncebrained lump of dung?” Etchebar’s spearmen bristled at that, but restrained themselves at his gesture. “The great tun is no more slain than you, as you’d find out if you flipped water in his fat face. And if we’d waited for your aid, it’d be the Trokmoi you were jabbering with here!” He spat into the pool of red. “Look!”

  As smoothly as before, he lifted Falfarun. The priest had still been on top of the inert Divico. Van set him on his feet as blood dribbled from the hem of his robe. The outlander slapped him gently, once or twice. He groaned and clutched his head. He did not seem much hurt, however shaken he was.

  Gerin turned all his powers of persuasion on the guard captain and the priest, one of whose eyes was already beginning to blacken. He broke off in mid-sentence when he saw Van stooping over Divico, plainly intending to finish off the unconscious man. The baron made a quick grab for his friend’s arm.

  “Captain, are you daft?” Van said.

  “I hope not.” Gerin took Van’s place over the fallen Trokmê and shook him.

  Divico came to himself with a thunderstorm in his head. He moaned and opened his eyes. That accursed Fox was bending over him, the scar above his eye white against his tan, his square face hard. The Trokmê gathered himself for a spring until he felt the cold kiss of a blade at his throat. He rolled his eyes down until he saw its upper edge, still smeared with blood.

  Impotent rage flashed across his face. “I willna beg for my life, if it’s that you’re after,” he said. “Slit my weasand and have done.”

  “A warrior’s answer,” Gerin nodded, still speaking the forest tongue with a fluency Divico found damnable. “Can it be you’re wise as well?”

  He sheathed his sword and helped the bewildered Trokmê sit. The chieftain hissed when he saw his slaughtered comrades.

  Gerin waved at them and went on, “You and your friends heard the Sibyl’s words, but did they heed them? Not a bit, and see what’s become of them now. Sure as sure the same’ll befall you and your clansmen if you go following Balamung’s war-trumpets. If I give you your life, would you go and tell them that, aye, and others you meet on the way?”

  Divico’s red brows came together as he thought. At last he said, “I would that. For Catuvolcus and Arviragus I cared not a fart. Poor Togail is another matter, though. Black shame ’twill be to me to tell my brother Kell his son had his lovely throat torn out while I return revengeless. Still, I will do it, to keep the same from befalling all my kin. Fox, I like you not, but I will. By Taranis, Teutates, and Esus I swear it.”

  That was the strongest oath the Trokmoi knew, Gerin thought; if it would not bind Divico to his word, nothing would. “Good man!” he said, clasping his hand and helping him to his feet. He almost told the Trokmê he thought like an Elabonian, but judged the proud chieftain would think it an insult.

  “A moment,” Etchebar said drily. “You have not the only claim on this man. Because of him, blood was shed in the holy precinct, which is abhorrent to our lord Biton.” He touched his eyes and the back of his head in reverence. Falfarun nodded vigorous agreement. The guardsmen level their spars at Divico, who shrugged and relaxed but kept his hand near his sword.

  “I am sure we can come to an understanding,” Gerin said, propelling guard captain and priest into a quiet corner. There they argued for some minutes. The Fox reminded them that Divico had opposed Catuvolcus, who started the unholy combat. Furthermore, he pointed out, Biton was able to deal with those who offended him, as he had proved on the body of the luckless thief who was displayed in the forecourt.

  Etchebar growled a curt order and Divico was set free. The Trokmê bowed to Gerin and left, one hand still clutched to his aching skull.

  Another discreet offering of gold “for the temple” salved Falfarun’s bruises. Etchebar was a harder case, for Van’s chaffing had wounded his pride. He wanted satisfaction, not gold. Making sure the outlander was not in earshot, Gerin apologized profusely.

  Black-robed temple servitors dragged away the dead Trokmoi and began to mop up their spilled gore, which had already attracted a few flies. Eyes still unhappy under bushy eyebrows, Etchebar gathered up his men and led them back to the forecourt. “And now, gentles, to the Sibyl at last,” Falfarun said, with quite as much solemn aplomb as he had had before he was tossed about and his gleaming robe befouled.

  The mouth to the Sibyl’s cave was a black, grinning slit. Elise, still wan, took Gerin’s hand. Looking down into the inky unknown, he was glad of the touch. Van fumed blasphemously as he tried to scrub sticky drying blood from his cuirass.

  Falfarun vanished down the cavemouth. “You need have no fear for your footing,” he called. “Since the unhappy day a century ago when the cousin of the Emperor Forenz (the second of that name, I believe) tumbled and broke an ankle, it was thought wise to construct regular steps and flooring to replace rocks and dirt. Such is life.” He sighed, a bit unhappy at tradition flouted.

  The subterranean corridor to the Sibyl’s caved went down and down, twisting until Gerin lost all idea of which way he was going. A few dim candles set in brackets of immemorial antiquity gave pale and fitful light, making the flapping shadow of Falfarun’s robe a monstrous thing. Cross-branches of the caverns were holes of deeper blackness in the gloom. Elise’s grip on Gerin’s hand tightened.

  Most of the cave wall was left in its natural state. Now and again a bit of rock crystal would gleam for a moment in the candlelight and then fade. A few stretches were walled off by brickwork of a most antique mode which had its origins in the timeworn river land of Kizzuwatna,
where men first lived in cities: not truly square like most bricks, these had convex tops and looked like buns of baked earth.

  When Gerin asked the reason for the brickwork, Falfarun answered with a shiver, “Behind the bricks are charms of great fellness, for not all branches of these caves are safe for men. As you have seen, some we use for armories, others to store grain or treasure. But in some branches dread things dwell, and men who tried to explore them never returned. Those ways were stopped, as you see, to prevent such tragedies. More than that I cannot tell you, for it was done ages ago.”

  Imagining the pallid monsters that could inhabit such dismal gloom, Gerin shivered himself. He tried not to think of the tons of rock and earth over his head. Van muttered something that might have been prayer or curse and hitched the swordbelt higher on his hip.

  An ancient statue of Biton smiled its secret smile at them as they neared the Sibyl. The candles gave way to brighter torches. The corridor widened to form a small chamber. A gust of cool, damp wind blew past Gerin’s face. He heard the deep mutter of a great subterranean river far below.

  When Falfarun touched his elbow, he started. “Your gifts entitle you to privacy with the Sibyl, if such is your desire,” the priest said.

  Gerin thought, then nodded.

  Surprisingly, Falfarun’s bruised face crinkled into a half-smile. “Good,” he said. “Did the answer you received please you not, belike your brawny friend would undertake to pitch me through a wall.” Van sputtered in embarrassment. Falfarun went on, “Good fortune attend you, gentles, and I leave you with the Sibyl.” He waved at the throne set against the rear wall of the chamber and was gone.

  “By my sword,” Van said softly, “if I didn’t know better, I’d say it was carved from one black pearl.” Taller than a man, the high seat glimmered nacreously in the torchlight; crowns of silver shone on its two back posts.

  The throne’s splendor made the bundle of rags sitting on it altogether incongruous. Though the Trokmoi had called the Sibyl a crone, Gerin hadn’t been able to believe the withered body through which the god had spoken ten years before still held life. But it was she, one eye dim, the other whitened by cataract. Her face was a badlands of wrinkles; her scalp shone through thinning strands of yellowish hair.

  The mind behind that ruined countenance was still sharp, though. She raised on withered claw in a gesture of command. “Step forward, lass, lads,” she said, voice a dry rustle. Gerin knew she would have called his father “lad” had he been before her, and she would have been as right.

  “What would you know of my master Biton?” she asked.

  For some days Gerin had mulled the question he would put. Still, in that place his tongue stumbled as he asked, “How best may I save myself and my lands and destroy the wizard who threatens them?”

  She did not reply at once. Thinking she had not heard, the baron opened his mouth to ask the question again. But with no warning, her eyes rolled back, showing only vein-tracked whites. Her scrawny fists clenched; her body shook and trembled, throwing her robe off one dry shoulder to reveal an empty dug. Her face twisted. When she spoke, it was not in her own voice, but that of a powerful man in the first flush of strength. Hearing the god, Gerin and his companions went to their knees as his words washed over them:

  “Buildings fall in flame and fire:

  Against you even gods conspire.

  Bow before the mage of the north

  When all his power is put forth

  To crush you down, to lay you low:

  For his grave no man will know.”

  The god’s voice and power gone, the Sibyl slumped forward in a faint.

  V

  Evening came. Gray clouds scudded across the sky. The wet-dust smell of rain was in the air. Grim and silent, Gerin began to help Van make camp. Elise, worry in her voice and on her face, said, “Not three words have you spoken since we left the temple.”

  All the rage and helplessness the baron had contained since he stalked frozen-faced past Falfarun to reclaim the wagon came out in a torrent of bile. He slammed his helmet to the ground. It spun into the undergrowth. “What difference does it make?” he said bitterly. “I might as well cut my own throat and save that perambulating corpse the work. The Sibyl told me the same thing he did, only from him I hadn’t believed it. I was a fool to go to her; I wanted advice, not a death sentence. A plague take all oracles!”

  At that, Van looked up. While Gerin stormed, he had quietly gone on setting up camp. He’d started a fire and drained the blood of a purchased fowl into a trench to propitiate the ghosts. “I knew a man who said something like that once, captain,” he said.

  “Is there a story to go with the knowing?” Elise asked, seemingly searching for any way to draw Gerin out of his inner darkness.

  “Aye, that there is,” Van agreed. He understood well enough what she was after, and pitched his words to the Fox. Elise settled herself by the fire to listen. “Captain, you know—or you’ve heard me say—the world is round, no matter what any priest may blabber. I know. I should; I’ve been round it.

  “Maybe ten years ago, when I was at the far eastern edge of this continent, I hired on as a man-at-arms under a merchant named Zairin. He was moving a shipment of jade, silk, and spices from a place called Ban Yarang to Selat, a couple of hundred miiles southeastward. The folk are funny round those parts, little yellow-skins with slanting eyes like the Shanda nomads’. It looks better on the women, I must say. Still, that’s no part of the yarn.

  “Zairin was one of those people who have no truck with the gods. Now, in those parts it’s customary to check the omens by watching the way the sacred peacocks peck at grain. If they eat well, the journey will be a good one. If not, it’s thought wiser to try again some other time.

  “There we were, all ready to set out, and Zairin’s right-hand man—a fat little fellow named Tzem—brought us a bird from the shrine. He poured out the grain, but the peacock, who probably hadn’t much liked traveling slung under his arm for more than a mile, just looked at it. He wouldn’t touch it for anything, not that bird.

  “Zairin sat watching this, getting madder and madder. Finally the old bandit had himself a gutful. He got up on his feet and roared out, ‘If he won’t eat, let him drink!’ May my beard fall out if I lie, he picked up that peacock, chucked it into the Kemlong river (which runs through Ban Yarang) and started off regardless.”

  Gerin was caught up in spite of himself. “Dyaus! It’s not a chance I’d like to take,” he said.

  “And you the fellow who curses oracles? You can imagine what we were thinking. Most of the way, though, things went well enough. The road was only a little track through the thickest jungle I’ve ever seen, so we lost a couple of porters to venomous snakes the poor barefoot fools stepped on, and one more to a blood-sucking demon that left him no more than a withered husk when we found him the next morning. But on a trip like that, you learn to expect such things. Zairin was mightily pleased with himself. He kept laughing and telling anyone who’d listen what a lot of twaddle it was to pay any attention to a fool bird.

  “Well, a day and a half before we would have made Selat and proved the old croaker right, everything came unraveled at once. A dam broke upstream from where we were fording; five men and half our donkeys drowned. The customs man Zairin knew at the border had been transferred, and I shudder to think of the silver his replacement gouged out of us. Half the men got a bloody flux. It bothered me for two years. And just to top everything off, old Zairin came down with the crabs. From then on, captain, he was a believer, I can tell you!”

  “Go howl!” Gerin said. “I was hoping you’d cheer me with a yarn where a prophesy turned out wrong. I know enough of the other sort myself. For that you can stand first watch.”

  “Can I, now? Well, you can—” The outlander scorched Gerin in more tongues than the Fox knew. Finally he said, “Captain, fair is fair: I’ll wrestle you for it.”

  “Aren’t you the bloodthirsty one? I thought you’d
had enough fighting for one day.”

  Gerin got up and pulled off his tunic. He helped Van undo the leather laces of his back-and-breast. His friend sighed as the weight came off. In kilt and sandals, Van seemed more a war-god than ever. His muscles ripped as he stretched. The forest of golden hair on his chest and belly flashed in the firelight. Only his scars told of his humanity—and his turbulent past. One terrible gash ran from right armpit to navel; every time Gerin saw it, he wondered how the out-lander had lived.

  Not that he was unmarked himself: sword, spear, knife, and arrow had left their signatures on his skin, and the cut Aingus had given him was only half healed. Seeing Elise’s eyes travel from Van’s enormous frame to him, he knew he seemed a stripling beside his companion, though he was a well-made man of good size.

  But he had a name as a wrestler on both sides of the Niffet. He had learned more tricks from masters south of the Kirs than his neighbors ever imagined, and threw men much bigger than himself. For all that, though, Van’s raw strength was enough to flatten him as often as he could finesse his way to victory. When word went out that they would tussle, even Trokmoi came to watch and bet.

  Embarrassed that her look had been seen and understood, Elise dropped her eyes. Gerin grinned at her. “He won’t chuck me through a tree, girl.”

  “Who says I won’t?” Van bellowed. He charged like an avalanche. Gerin sprang to meet him. Ducking under the thick arms that would quickly have squeezed breath from him, he hooked his own left arm behind Van’s right knee and rammed a shoulder into his friend’s hard-muscled middle.

  Van grunted and went down, but a meaty paw dragged Gerin after him. They rolled, thrashed, and grappled in the dirt. Gerin ended up riding his friend’s broad back. His hands had slid under the outlander’s shoulders; his hands were clasped behind Van’s neck. Van slapped the ground. Gerin let him up. He shook his head and rubbed his eye to rout out some dust.

  “You’ll have to show me that one again, Gerin,” he said. “Another fall?”