by John Dalmas
"This match is wrestling, not blows!" he bellowed. "Do not forget again! You will disgrace us!"
Then he waved them together. This time Macurdy didn't meet Corgan's embrace. Instead he feinted another leg throw, converting Corgan's reaction into a hip throw that ended with the Tiger's arm behind his back. Held there by Macurdy, who applied enough pressure to let him know he could dislocate his elbow if he wished. He expected some kind of cry from Corgan, but when there was none, he let him go and backed away.
Now the hatred in the Tiger's aura showed wildness as well. When Skortov waved them together, Corgan loosed a straight left that struck Macurdy in the face, sending him staggering backwards. Then the Tiger was on him with lefts and rights, and suddenly it was over. Macurdy stood bleeding from cheek, nose, and mouth. Corgan had rolled down the grassy mound, coming to rest in the trampled dust of the drill field. After a moment the Tiger rolled over and tried to get up. He made it to his hands and knees, but no further.
Skortov bellowed another order. Two grim Tigers strode to Corgan, jerked him roughly to his feet, and manhandled him away. Then the captain turned to Macurdy, took his wrist, and raised his arm in victory. There was no cheering, and for a moment Macurdy thought they disapproved. Then he shook off his fog and looked out at the company. There were no grins, but neither were there scowls. Their auras reflected approval.
"Company," Skortov bellowed, "continue your drill!"
They did, less smoothly than before, as if thrown off stride by the distraction. Pleased but rueful, Skortov looked at Macurdy. "Corgan has no particular reputation as a skilled brawler," he said. "I chose him because of his reputation for strength. And because he feels he has a grudge against you."
"Grudge?"
"The story is that the runaway, Varia, had been your wife on Farside. And that she ran away to return to you. Corgan had sentry watch when she escaped from the barracks. He was put on punishment for months, and blamed you for it."
Now Skortov grinned. "I presumed you would win," he said. "I was along in Quaie's War."
* * *
Still bleeding, Macurdy left the mound and, at the road, called Vulkan to him. Invisibly they walked together to the river, where Macurdy washed his damaged face in water that not long before had been snow on some high slope. Then he stripped, and washed the blood from his U.S. Army fatigues. After spreading them on a bush, he and Vulkan lay beside it in the sun. It took a minute to get the proper mental focus, then Macurdy used his healing skills on his face. When he'd finished, they napped.
That evening they ate with Amnevi. The swelling in Macurdy's face was gone, and the lacerations and abrasions almost entirely healed, but some discoloration remained. His explanation was brief. He had, he said, told a Tiger officer he'd like to test himself against a Tiger.
Amnevi's brows rose. "What was the outcome?" she asked.
"I'm surprised you haven't heard by now. I won. Decisively." He told her then of Corgan's hatred, and its roots.
"Hmm," she mused. "I find myself not surprised at your victory, though why you should want such a test is beyond my imagining. Well. Your legend is not unknown here. This will add a page to it." She paused. "And to Varia's."
* * *
It was then he told her why he was there—of the threat of invasion from across the Ocean Sea. Of his dream and A'duaill's, of Vulkan's premonition, and his own experience in Hithmearc. And Cyncaidh's story of the two strange ships. He expected, he said, to raise an army when the time came.
He put it more strongly than he had to most of the Rude Lands rulers. As he supposed, she'd heard much of it before, from Liiset, via courier. She wished him well but promised nothing; he supposed it was as far as her authority allowed.
Besides, Sarkia could easily die tomorrow—today for that matter—and who knew what Idri would do when she took over? Not cooperate with him, that was certain.
* * *
The next morning, Vulkan, fully visible, trotted out the Cloister's main gate with Macurdy on his back. They were on their way to see the King in Silver Mountain, the last royalty Macurdy would visit on that round.
22 The King in Silver Mountain
Macurdy had never heard a description of the royal residence in the Silver Mountain. He'd assumed most dwarves worked underground, and probably lived underground, but the palace?
The road, being paved with bricks of stone, was even better than the road through Asrik. It was cut into a forested slope above a rowdy mountain stream, and ditched on the uphill side. Numerous brooklets, springs and seeps fed water into the ditch, to pass at intervals beneath small stone bridges. It seemed to Macurdy the prettiest road he'd seen in two universes.
After an hour or so, he came to a stone post with 2 MILES carved into it, without saying to where.
The last half mile was the floor of an upper valley. Here the road was magnificent, paved with squared and fitted flagstones, and flanked on both sides with a row of monster white pines taller than tulip trees. The most slender of them was nearly five feet through, their mighty trunks rising like columns eighty feet or more to the lowest branches. Macurdy's practiced eye made them well over two hundred feet tall; they'd have looked at home in Nehtaka County.
Then he topped a rise, and the avenue through the trees widened, funnel-like, still flanked by great pines. This provided a broader view of the "where," a hundred yards ahead: an entrance into the mountain itself, and beyond a doubt the royal residence. It was surely the grandest entrance in Yuulith. So grand, the landscaping—mossy lawns, sculpted yews, beds of rhododendron, arbors overgrown with roses—went nearly unnoticed.
A section of precipitous mountainside had been carved away, leaving a polished—polished!—vertical face a hundred feet wide and a hundred high. The entrance itself had been cut into that, and fitted with massive double doors, each ten feet wide and fifteen high. As Macurdy drew nearer, he found the massive doorway fittings faced with gold, and magnificently detailed with intertwined serpents and leafy vines. From among the leaves peered carven tomttu, birds, and small animals, as if they lived among them. The doors themselves were plated with polished silver and gold, intricately and imaginatively ornamented. It would be easy, Macurdy told himself, to spend a day sorting out the patterns, and finding things one had missed.
The guards were large and powerful dwarves in their prime. Even bare-headed (which they weren't) and barefoot (which they were), they stood five feet tall, or close to it. Stripped they might have weighed one hundred sixty pounds of muscle. Their splendid silver helms reached higher than Macurdy's shoulders. Their knee-length hauberks and seven-foot spears shimmered with dwarven magic, and no doubt their swords as well, when unsheathed.
He was expected. Amnevi had sent a courier ahead for him. He was detained just long enough to dismount and formally identify himself. Vulkan was escorted down a side path to a stable out of sight in the forest, escorted with the respect due a dwarf friend. Then one of the great doors opened smoothly and silentLY, and an attendant emerged to lead Macurdy inside.
There they walked down a high narrow colonnade, its polished granite columns carved from the mountain itself. Flames danced and swayed in open oil lamps wrought of silver, but Macurdy smelled no smoke. The place seemed ventilated, with circulation driven by some mechanical system. Or possibly magic. And the lamps were not the only source of light. At intervals, white light flooded from apertures overhead, leaving Macurdy to speculate about systems of mirrors relaying daylight from somewhere above.
The colonnade led to a large waiting room, where an usher took custody of him. From there Macurdy was taken down corridors less grand, to a guest room not large but well furnished. All it lacked was windows. The bed was more than large enough, large though he was. On a heavy oak table stood a bowl of grapes and two platters, one with apples and pears, the other with a loaf of dark and pungent rye bread, a knife, and a wheel of cheese. A pitcher of cool water stood beside them, and a bottle of red wine, with glasses. On another table was
soap, a towel, a silver wash basin, and a pitcher of warm water.
"His Majesty's aide will be here shortly," the usher said. "Ye may want to refresh yerself." Then he bowed and left.
Before Macurdy had left the Cloister, Amnevi had told him his appointment with the king would probably be on his third day there. Even royalty couldn't expect a first-day audience. Half an hour later, however, His Majesty's aide knocked on the door. His Majesty, he said, would see him later that afternoon. "Meanwhile yew've time for a nap," he added. "I'll have ye wakened for your appointment." Then, seeing the surprise on Macurdy's face, he explained: "Yew've been named dwarf friend, for rescuing a trade embassy from highwaymen. Perhaps ye'd forgotten. It carries with it certain privileges."
Macurdy remembered well enough. But when Kittul Kendersson Great Lode had dubbed him dwarf friend, he'd thought it was between himself and Kendersson's party, from the Diamond Flues, the better part of a thousand miles west. Seemingly Kittul had spread the word. And apparently a dwarf friend was deemed a friend to all dwarves, regardless of where.
"Meanwhile," the aide continued, "there are things ye should know. About the king himself, and the protocol of his court." Finn Greatsword, he said, was very ancient, even for a dwarf: he'd already lived 337 years, and ruled for the last 179 of them. During his reign, the dwarves in Silver Mountain had much increased the wealth, and without increasing the precious metals they dug. What Greatsword had done was increase the base metals taken from the mountain and refined—copper, tin, antimony, and others in varying quantities. But especially iron.
All the better grades of pewter were spun in Silver Mountain, and the better weapon-grade steel was forged there. The very finest swords were dwarf made. They were expensive, of course. When enhanced with spells by dwarven masters, they were especially expensive, and the dwarves were particular about to whom they sold enchanted blades.
Macurdy showed the aide his saber. "It's not dwarf made," he said, "but it carries a dwarven spell."
The aide peered intently at it, then passed a hand along its blade, not quite touching it. "Indeed," he said. "The spell's not one of ours, but excellent nonetheless." He concentrated. "From the Diamond Flues. Yes."
"Kittul Kendersson Great Lode spelled it."
"Kendersson! Excellent! A pity, though, to waste a Kendersson spell on a blade not dwarf made."
Macurdy felt a twinge of resentment at the aide's arrogance, and it showed in his voice. "It happened on the road, and it's all the blade I had. It served me well in more than one fight."
"Of course, of course. I have no doubt. With old Kittul's spell on it, it would. But on a dwarven blade, and applied during the forging..." The aide's gesture finished the thought. Before he left, he asked Macurdy for custody of the saber. " 'Tis in need of polishing," he said, "and yew'll not need it here."
"My thanks," Macurdy told him, his voice still tinged with annoyance. "But my purse is too thin."
The aide shook his head. "For yew there'll be no cost, dwarf friend. Courtesy of the Mountain and His Majesty."
Macurdy realized the value of the offer. Anyone with a little coaching and the proper tools could put an edge on a sword. But few swordsmen could produce the edge a professional polisher could, and a professional greatly improved a blade's appearance. Reputedly even its temper, though Macurdy was skeptical. Professionals with a reputation, however, charged more than many swordsmen could pay. And dwarven masters of almost any craft were said to be the best.
* * *
The lesser audience chamber was small, perhaps twelve by twenty feet. Near the far end, Finn Great-sword, the King in Silver Mountain, sat on a throne not merely golden, but of actual gold. The twenty-inch dais on which it stood was clothed with furs. As were the walls; a king's ransom in furs. As instructed, Macurdy approached to a short line, eight feet in front of His Majesty, and stopped.
Finn Greatsword had always been bulky, and his years had not shrunk him. He still looked formidable, though his large hands were gnarly with arthritis. His once-golden beard was white, shot with pale yellow and parted in the middle, the halves braided, and resting on his thick thighs. His spadelike teeth were almost brown with age, but they seemed all to be there.
"So yew are the Lion of Farside." The deep guttural voice issued from a barrel chest, to rumble out a wide mouth.
"I didn't give myself the name," Macurdy answered.
"Of course not. Twas the ylver gave it to ye. I've heard the tales, including those of the Diamond Flue clans. And I'm told of yer reason for coming here. However, we do not divulge our strength at arms, even to dwarf friends."
He examined Macurdy, then seemed to make a decision. It was, Macurdy realized, done for effect; the dwarf king already knew what he was going to say. "But to yew," Greatsword rumbled, "to yew I'll tell more than I would most others. Every dwarf lad is trained for years, in sword, crossbow, spear and poleax, and in tactics above- and below-ground. As well as in the skilled trades by which we earn our way in the world. We start as boys. The use of both weapons and tools are as natural to us as breathing.
"But I keep no army. Guards, yes, but no army. If I need an army, I send the war torch through the mountain, or such part of the mountain as I choose, and all who see it rush to arms, and to the proper mustering hall."
He paused, eyeing Macurdy with interest. "And now I'd like to hear the tale you bear, from yer own mouth."
Macurdy repeated the story, his delivery well practiced by now, and the dwarf king seemed to absorb it all. Macurdy finished with the usual comment: "Nothing may come of it. Dreams are most often just that: dreams. A great boar's premonitions are more worrisome, but it's possible they foreshadow nothing more than the grandfather of storms, sweeping in to ravage the coast and the lands behind." He gestured. "As for the strange ships— Who knows where they came from? Still, considering everything together, they're food for thought, and worth our attention."
The king's large head nodded. "When I was a lad, and books still were copied by hand, King Harlof the Fearless bargained with the eastern ylver over a particular ruby their emperor coveted. Part of the exchange was books, ylvin books, and one of the books told of the Voitusotar. And the terrible sickness that grips them on the sea."
He paused, his old eyes glinting. "Of course, who knows what herbs they may have learned to brew since then, or what sorceries. Eh? For that was twenty centuries past, or more.
"But the same book described the perils found here, in what they called Vismearc." He leaned forward intently. "And suppose—suppose they do invade, rich as they are, and powerful. They know about us, here in the Mountain—know about us and are warned. Tis in the book! 'Most terrible of all,' it calls us. 'Short of leg but long of arm ... bodies of stone ... the strength of giants ... no concept of mercy.' "
He shook his head. "If they come, they'll avoid trouble with us. And we are an ancient lineage. Even as individuals, our lives are far longer than the ylver's and the Sisters', and yer own. We watch dynasties come and go; they sprout like mushrooms after rain. Allies become enemies, and enemies allies. Tyrants are thrown down. Unlikely princes become statesmen, and are succeeded by handsome fools."
He paused, leaning forward again, eyeing Macurdy intently. "And we trade with them all. If the Voitusotar come, they will not trouble us. They will trade with us. If they come."
He sat back. "Is there aught else you'd care to say?"
Macurdy shook his head. Nowhere else had he arrived with greater hopes, and no one else had brushed him off like that. They will trade with us! He left more than disappointed. He left with a bad taste in his mouth.
* * *
The next day he was given a tour of diggings, great screening rooms, forging rooms. He inspected jewels being cut and polished, beautiful vessels being made of silver and gold. Heavy dwarven jewelry. And began to appreciate why some people—human, ylver, dwarves—put such value on them.
But some things he was not shown, and he missed them. Things that made the
Mountain livable—the ventilation and drainage systems in particular.
* * *
On the third day, Macurdy ate breakfast with the aide who'd briefed him. From a fur, the dwarf drew a well-worn scabbard—Macurdy's—and laid it on the table. Macurdy picked it up, and from it drew his old Ozian saber, now beautifully polished, looking better than new. Then the dwarf brought forth another, in a splendid silver scabbard set with gemstones, and held out the hilt to Macurdy. "Draw it, dwarf friend," he said. "It's yers. Draw it and tell me what ye think."
Macurdy drew it. It shimmered awesomely with magic, and felt like an extension of his arm. "Blessed God," he whispered. "I never knew there were weapons like this."
"Spells were laid on it at every stage of its forging. It's the best we could do in two days. We could have done little better in any case. His Majesty wishes ye well. If the Voitusotar do arrive, he says, he sees in yew the best hope of the tallfolk. Yew and yer great boar."
* * *
Half an hour later, Macurdy was on Vulkan again, riding down the avenue of pines, reciting what he'd seen and learned. He'd decided the King in Silver Mountain was not as bad as he'd thought.
