Werenight

by Turtledove, Harry

  When the baron paid Turgis, the innkeeper put an arm round his shoulder. “You’re a good friend, Fox. I’m sorry to see you go. You remind me of the days when I still had hair on my pate. Please note, however, you brigand, I am not so sorry as to make you any rash promises. The last one cost me dear enough.”

  Rihwin arrived on the morning he had set, and as ready as he had vowed. Gone was his thin toga; he wore a leather tunic and baggy woolen trousers. A sword swung at his hip, armor and a quiver of javelins were stowed behind him, and he had set a battered bronze helm on his curls.

  His left ear, though, still sported a golden ring. “It’s possible to ask too much of me, you know,” he said sheepishly when Gerin pointed at it.

  “Rihwin, for all I care, you can wear the damned thing in your nose. Let’s be off.”

  The baron drove the wagon up the Alley. Van stayed in the rear compartment, out of sight. Gerin did not want to be stopped by some irate merchant who’d had his goods smashed or scattered in the wild ride and now recognized one of its perpetrators. He was confident he was immune from being identified so; save for his northern dress, he looked like just another Elabonian. Thus it came as a small shock when someone waved frantically and called his name.

  “Elise!” he said. “Great Dyaus above, what now?”

  IX

  Elise’s story was simple enough, if unpleasing. Valdaburn’s delight at guesting his unknown niece had faded. The fading quickened when he realized how cordially Elise and Namarra despised each other.

  “It all blew up at dawn this morning in a glorious fight,” Elise said. She reached into a pocket of her traveling coat and brought out a lock of Namarra’s fiery hair. “Black at the roots, you’ll notice.”

  “May I be of service, my lady?” Rihwin asked. “A spell for an enemy’s ruin is easy when one has a lock of hair with which to work.”

  “I know enough magic for that myself,” Gerin said, not wanting Rihwin to help Elise in any way at all.

  “The hussy hardly merits being blasted from the face of the earth simply because she and I don’t get along,” Elise said. She asked Rihwin, “How is it you are in the city, and in Gerin’s company?”

  He briefly explained. She said, “When last I saw you—and more of you than I wanted to, I’ll have you know—I would have thought you’d never want to go back to the northlands again.”

  He flinched at that, but answered, “They hold no terror for me, so long as I am not required to face your father.”

  “Where shall I take you now?” Gerin asked Elise. “You must have other kin here.”

  “I do, but I know none of them by name. Nor would it do me much good if I did. My uncle is not a man to use half-measures. He swore he’d make sure I was no more welcome in any of their houses than in his. That leaves me little choice but to travel north with you.”

  Gerin realized she was right.

  “Get moving, will you, and talk later,” Van said from his comfortless perch in the back of the wagon. “I feel like an ostrich in a robin’s egg.”

  Once they were out of the city, he emerged from confinement and stretch till his joints creaked. “Let me ride with you a while, Rihwin,” he said. “I like the bounce of a chariot under my feet.”

  “Do you indeed?” Rihwin said. He flicked the whip over his matched dapples. They leaped forward, sending the light car bounding into the air whenever its bronze-shod wheels struck a stone set an inch or two higher in the roadbed than its fellows. Van was unruffled. He shifted his weight with marvelous quickness, not deigning to clutch at the chariot’s handrail.

  Rihwin gave up after a wild quarter of a mile, slowing his horses to a walk. As Gerin caught up, he asked Elise, “Does he always act so?”

  “I’ve rarely seen him otherwise. The day he came to court me, he stepped down from his car, kissed me, then kissed my father twice as hard! But he has such charm and nonchalance that the outrageous things he does don’t grate as they would from someone else.”

  “What, ah, do you think of him?” Gerin asked carefully.

  “As a possible husband, you mean? I could have done much worse.” She laid a hand on his arm. “But I could do much better, too, and I think I have.”

  Guard duty was easier to bear with three men to carry the load. Golden Math, a waning crescent, had been in the sky when Rihwin woke Gerin to stand the third watch. Elleb, three days past full, was nearing the meridian; Tiwaz had just set.

  “Tell me, how is it you know sorcery?” Rihwin asked. To Gerin, he seemed to be saying, How could a backwoodsman like you hope to master such a subtle art?

  The baron had met that attitude from southerners too often during his first stay in the capital. Touched on an old sore spot, he said shortly, “Surprising as it may seem, I spent two years studying in the city, including a turn at the Collegium, though a short one.”

  “Did you really? What did you study besides mage-craft?” Far from being condescending, Riwhin showed eager interest.

  “Natural philosophy, mostly, and history.”

  “History? Great Dyaus above, man, did you ever hear Maleinos lecture?”

  “Yes, often. He interested me.”

  “What do you think of his cyclical notion of historical development? I was so impressed by the peroration he always used that I memorized it: ‘Peoples and cities now have great success, now are so totally defeated as no longer to exist. And the changing circuit revealed such things before our time, and will reveal them again, and the revelations will not cease, so long as there be men and battles.’ And he would stalk off, like an angry god.”

  “Yes, and do you know where he’d go?” Gerin said: “To a little tavern close by, to drink resinated wine—how do Sithonians stand the stuff?—for hours on end.”

  Rihwin looked pained. “You just shattered one of my few remaining illusions.”

  “I’m not saying he’s not a brilliant man. I do think he presents his ideas too forcefully, though, and makes too little allowance for variations and exceptions to his rules.”

  “I can’t quite agree with you there.…” All but oblivious to their surroundings, they fenced with ideas, arguing in low voices until Rihwin exclaimed, “Is it growing light already?”

  They made good progress the next day, and the next, and the next, reaching the Pranther River at the end of the fourth day out of the capital. They camped near its southern bank.

  The night was quiet, save for the river’s gentle murmur. Pale clouds drifted lazily from west to east, obscuring now the pale thin waxing crescent of Nothos, now Tiwaz’s bright full face, now rosy Elleb, which came into the sky halfway through the mid-watch. Gerin, whose watch that was, endured the muttering of the ghosts for another couple of hours, then nudged Van.

  His friend woke with a thrash. “Anything happening?” he asked.

  “Not so you’d notice,” Gerin said.

  “Aye, it seems restful enough.” Van looked down. “What’s this? Look what I’ve been all but sleeping on, captain—another aoratos plant.” He plucked it from the ground.

  Gerin eyed it with distaste. “Now that I’m only standing one watch in three I don’t need anything to keep me awake at night, and the leaves are so bitter they shrivel my tongue. Throw it away.”

  “I’d sooner not. I want to see if Rihwin knows of it.”

  “Suit yourself. As for me, I can hardly keep my eyes open.”

  It was still nearly dark when Van woke him. “Something moved over by the river, behind that stand of brush,” the outlander whispered. “I couldn’t quite make out what it was, but I don’t like it.”

  “Let’s have a look.” Grabbing for sword and trousers, the baron slid out of his bedroll. He roused Elise and Rihwin, told them to give him and Van a few minutes and then to use their own judgment. Then he slipped on his helm and followed Van down toward the Pranther.

  As always, the Fox marveled at Van’s uncanny ability to pick his way through undergrowth. His own woodscraft was better than most, but
once or twice an arm or shoulder brushed a branch hard enough to make it rustle. His comrade made never a sound.

  Van froze when he came to the edge of the brush. A moment later Gerin eased up beside him, following with his eyes the outlander’s pointing finger. “Trokmoi!” he hissed, hand tightening of itself on swordhilt.

  A pair of the barbarians sprawled by the riverbank. Their attention seemed focused on the stream. Their tunics were not checked in the usual northern fashion, but were all over fylfots. These were Balamung’s men!

  But they did not move, not even when Gerin parted the curtain of bushes and walked toward them. His bafflement grew with every step. He came up close behind them, and still they were oblivious. Then he bent down and prodded one of them.

  The Trokmê toppled. He was dead, his face an agonized rictus. In his throat stood an unfletched wooden dart, half its length stained with an orange paste. A matching dart was in his companion’s unmoving chest. A fat green trout lay between the Trokmoi, bone hook still set in its mouth.

  “What in the gods’ holy names—!” Van burst out.

  A grim smile formed on Gerin’s face. “I do believe the rivermen have done us a good turn,” he said. “Can you think of any reason Balamung would send men south, except to hunt us? And here, almost up with their prey, they stopped to do a little fishing—in the one river in all Elabon men don’t fish.” He explained how the rivermen had come to the Pranther.

  Van shook his head. “Poor damned fools, to die for a trout. But it will make us a fine breakfast.” He stooped to pick up the fish.

  Gerin grabbed his arm and stopped him. A reptilian head was watching them from the river. No expression was readable in the riverman’s unwinking amber eyes, but he held an envenomed dart ready to throw.

  “All right, keep the blasted thing!” Van flung the trout into the Pranther. The riverman dove after it, surfacing a moment later with it in one webbed hand. A grave nod and he was gone.

  “What’s toward?” Riwhin called from the bushes. The baron was glad to see he’d had sense enough to don armor and to carry his bow with an arrow nocked and ready. He was a good deal less glad to see Elise behind Rihwin; he wished she wouldn’t always run toward trouble. Frowning, he told them what had happened.

  Rihwin said, “That Trokmê must hate you indeed, to work so hard for your destruction. Or perhaps he fears you.”

  Gerin laughed bitterly. “Why should he? I doubt I’m more than a pebble underfoot to him—a sharp pebble, aye, but a pebble nonetheless.”

  Hooves thuttered on the bridge called Dalassenos’ Revenge. Rihwin half drew his bow, expecting more Trokmoi. But it was only a dour courier in the black and gold of the Empire, a leather message pouch slung over one shoulder. He headed south fast as his lathered horses would take him. “Make way!” he shouted, though no one blocked him.

  “Just once,” Gerin said, “I’d like to see one of them have more to say than ‘Make way!’ It’s no more likely than a wolf climbing trees, though.”

  The Fox disliked Elabon’s courier corps. All the barons north of the Kirs saw it as part of the thin web binding them to the Empire, and they were right. The couriers carried news faster than anyone else, but only on imperial business.

  Later that day another courier came south at the same headlong pace. Gerin called after him for news. He got none. They refused even to gossip, fearing it might somehow compromise them. Cursing, Gerin hurried his own northward pace.

  Rihwin, as it happened, did not know of the aoratos plant or its uses. “And that is passing strange,” he said, “for I thought surely the Collegium’s herbalists were aware of the properties of every plant that grows within the Empire.” He took the little bush from Van and studied it. “I must say it seems ordinary.”

  “Which is likely why no one’s bothered with it here,” Van said. “On the plains it stands out a good deal more.”

  “I must try it tonight,” Rihwin said.

  “The taste is foul,” Gerin warned him.

  “What if it is? If the effects are as interesting as claimed, I may be on the brink of discovering a whole new vice.” He gave a voluptuary’s leer, but spoiled it by winking.

  “If you were half the carpet knight you pretend to be, you’d have debauched yourself to death years ago,” Gerin said.

  “And if you were as sour as you let on, you’d long since have pickled in your own juice,” Rihwin retorted, a shot with so much justice that Gerin chuckled and owned himself beaten.

  He stood first watch that night. By sunset he had grown so edgy that he decided to chew some aoratos leaves himself, regardless of their flavor. He felt fatigue flow away as the juice coursed through his veins. The curious extra sense the plant conferred showed him a squirrel asleep in its nest high in an aspen tree, a fox stalking a vole, a nightjar whipping after fluttering moths. The ghosts seemed troubled; thanks to his added perception, Gerin could almost make out the cause of their alarm, but in the end it eluded him.

  He did not know whether he’d swallowed more leaves this time or this was a more potent aoratos, but its effects were still strong in him when he woke Rihwin. They made the baron reluctant to seek sleep at once. He was also curious to learn what the southerner would think of the plant.

  “Pah!” Rihwin almost choked on the first mouthful, but choked it down. “A gourmet’s delight it is not.” He chewed more leaves. A few minutes passed. His breath began to whistle more quickly through his nostrils. His voice grew soft and dreamy. “How bright Tiwaz is, like polished silver!” After another moment: “Is that a ferret over there, Gerin?” He pointed into the darkness.

  The baron felt his own mind reach out. “I think it is.”

  “Remarkable. And the ghosts—hear them wail!”

  They talked idly for a while, trying with scant success to find some everday sensation comparable to that induced by the aoratos. “This is foolishness,” Gerin said at last. “If there were half a dozen things like it, it would not be marvelous at all.”

  “Astutely reasoned,” Rihwin answered, his tone mildly sarcastic. “From that, it would follow—” He paused in mid-sentenced, exclaimed, “The ghosts are gone!”

  They were, fled away as suddenly and completely as if driven to shelter by the rising sun. The gloom outside the campfire’s glow seemed somehow strange and flat. Surrounded by this great stillness, the cry of a hunting owl came shockingly loud.

  Gerin’s surprised senses were still groping for an explanation when Rihwin, now feeling the aoratos more strongly than did the baron, whispered, “I know why they fled. Look north.”

  Looking was not what was required, but Gerin understood. The blood froze in his veins as he sensed the approaching demon. Only the aoratos plant let him do so; without it, the flying monster would have stayed unseen, undetected, until it descended on the travelers like a hawk stooping on roosting fowl.

  The huge demon drew swiftly nearer, like a stone hurled from a god’s hand. Even with the aoratos, its shape was hard to define. Gerin was most reminded of the jellyfish that floated in the Greater Inner Sea, but the analogy was imperfect, for Balamung’s sending—the baron had no doubt it was such—surveyed with three bright, pitiless eyes the landscape over which it sailed. For mouth it had a rasping sucker disk, set with hundreds of tiny curved teeth. The edges of its gross body blurred and wavered, like a stone seen through running water.

  Still, while in this plane it had to be vulnerable to weapons, however fearsome its appearance. Though fear gripped him, Gerin strung his bow and set an arrow in it. His fingers worked more of themselves than under his conscious direction.

  But the demon halted well out of bowshot. The baron’s heart sank. He saw no way to lure it into range before it began a killing rush too swift to give him a good shot. Whistling tunelessly, Rihwin glanced from bow to demon.

  The creature gave no sign of immediate attack. It seemed as uncertain as the men it faced. Words formed in the baron’s mind: “How do you know of me? The man-thing who
sent me forth promised easy meat, not warriors with weapons to hand.”

  For no reason Gerin understood, Rihwin was grinning. “Nor is that the only way in which your master deceived you,” he said. He spoke softly to avoid waking Van and Elise, who could not sense the demon; it felt his ideas as he and Gerin perceived its.

  “I name no man-thing master!” Its thought dinned in Gerin’s head. More quietly, it asked, “And how else am I deceived?”

  “Why, by thinking you can do us harm, when you cannot so much as touch us,” Rihwin answered airily.

  “How not?” the demon asked. Gerin was tempted to do the same. They had no protection against it, as it surely knew.

  But Rihwin was not perturbed. “Consider,” he said: “To reach us, you first must traverse half the distance, not so?”

  “What of it?” the demon snarled.

  “Then you will travel half the remaining interval, and then half of that, and half that, and so on forever. You may come as close as you like, but reach us you never will.”

  Gerin felt the demon muttering to itself as it pursued Rihwin’s chain of logic. It did not seem very intelligent; relying on invisibility and ferocity, it had rarely needed much in the way of wits. At last it said, “You are wrong, man-thing, and my showing you this will be your death.” Terrifyingly quick, it was twice as close as before. It halted for a moment. “Do you see?”

  It halved the gap again, paused to show itself—and Gerin drove his arrow cleanly through its central eye.

  It screamed like a woman broken on the rack and was gone, fleeing back to whatever plane Balamung had summoned it from. Gerin thought that agony-filled cry had to wake everything for miles, but only he and Rihwin seemed to hear it. Van and Elise slept on, and all was unchanged out in the darkness. No, not quite—the ghosts returned, their murmurs now far less fear-filled than before.

  The baron picked up the denuded aoratos bush. He hefted it thoughtfully. “Thank the gods for this little plant,” he said to Rihwin. “Without it, we’d’ve been nothing but appetizers for that devil.”