The Lion Returns

by John Dalmas

  He left the room with a sense of empowerment he would never have expected. On Five-Day he'd be ready. Then—who knew?

  * * *

  After supper he visited his sons. Before leaving them, he hugged them. It hadn't occurred to them that a father might hug his sons. Then he went to the Guards' stable and curried Vulkan. "Tomorrow," Macurdy said, "we'll visit the King in Silver Mountain."

  «No complications have arisen then?»

  "Actually something has, something good. I'll tell you tomorrow on the road. I'd like to ride you again, if that's all right."

  «Of course.»

  After hanging up the curry comb and brush, Macurdy walked to the Administration Building, where he was lodged in a guest room.

  He was preoccupied, but it wasn't Five-Day or the dwarf king he had on his mind. Ever since he'd left Indiana, little more than six months earlier, a thought had lodged in the back of his mind, only occasionally looked at: that something might have happened, and Varia would come back to him. Now he told himself he'd been dreaming. It wasn't going to happen, and it seemed to him he needed a wife. Wanted one anyway, or would when this war was over. And when he thought about it, he thought of Omara.

  But somehow he felt uncomfortable with the idea, as if he'd be taking advantage of her. Partly because it was himself he was thinking of, not Omara. But mainly because what he felt for her was not what he'd felt for Varia, or Melody, or Mary. What he did feel was respect and admiration—which was good as far as it went, but less than the complete package.

  On the other hand, it had been Omara who'd initiated their sexual relationship, nearly eighteen years back, and so he'd assumed she'd like to be his wife. But politics had been part of that, and...

  It occurred to him he really didn't know much about women, other than his wives. And somehow all three of them had proposed to him. He'd never really thought about that before. It was simply the way it had happened.

  If you're ever going to do anything about this, he told himself, you need to talk these things over with Omara. He examined the thought. But not now, he decided. After Five-Day maybe, or after the war. If I'm still alive.

  * * *

  In the Mountain, Macurdy met with both the king and Aldrik Egilsson Strongarm. Strongarm, a stony-looking dwarf, was to lead the dwarven army north. A whole legion! Lads and gaffers would stay behind for home defense, and to keep things running in the Mountain.

  Strongarm's surname sparked Macurdy's curiosity. Just how strong were these people? He was tempted to invite Strongarm to arm wrestle, and find out, but it seemed unwise. He knew too little about dwarven pride and customs. If he beat the dwarf, it might cause resentment, while if the dwarf won, it might lessen his own status and respect.

  The king had received Macurdy's messages to the Rude Lands kings on tactics and training, and now made it clear that his army would follow their own strategy and tactics. "Yours are fine for tallfolk," he said, "with their great long legs and long-legged horses. But my folk will fight as an army. We've far less need than tallfolk for food. Ye've no idea what we can subsist on, if it comes down to it. Nor do we need fires or fuel. The All-Power keeps us warm."

  The All-Power. The Web of the World, Macurdy realized. "All of you?" he asked. "Or just the more talented?"

  The old king sized him up shrewdly. "Ye know what I'm talking about, don't ye? Yes, all of us. It's a gift given us by the All-Power itself, in the time of sorting, when we agreed to live in the Earth and delve for things of beauty."

  They could, he went on, travel all day at better than two miles an hour, and sleep anywhere. Or travel at night, for dwarven eyes made use of the least light. "Even rock gives off light," the king said, "for those who can see it. And trees as well. Weakly 'tis true, but we'll not crash into them in the darkness. And yer aware that voitik monsters have no effect on us.

  "We'll march north when winter comes. Cross the Pomatik River behind the invader's lines, and strike his encampments as we find them."

  "The Pomatik River?" Macurdy interrupted. He'd never heard of it before.

  "Our trade missions and embassies travel everywhere," Greatsword said, "and our youth are schooled in geography. I recommend it to ye." He chuckled, a deep throaty rumble. "And I've made good use of Old One's feathered folk. We know where the invader's lines are, and the encampments he's begun building against the winter." His old eyes gleamed into Macurdy's. " 'Twill be a grand war. Between the two of us, we'll grind them to dust."

  It would, Macurdy thought, take more than the two of them.

  It also occurred to him how little he knew of Yuulith's geography. He knew the Rude Lands, the eastern third of Oz, a small part of the Marches, and a little corner of the Western Empire, but not much more. All he knew of the Eastern Empire was, it was east of the Western. He'd correct that ignorance, he told himself. After Five-Day.

  If there was an after for him. Somehow he'd never worried about dying; it was, after all, inevitable. His fears had been of failure, not death. Failure, and mistakes that could cost others their lives.

  * * *

  The last thing he did before leaving the mountain was accept the uniforms and gear of several rakutur: the half-voitar of the elite company that had charged onto the footbridge to their death, near the head of Copper River Pass. Rakutur who'd made it across before dying.

  It was Finn Greatsword who brought the matter up. His people had been puzzled by the dead rakutur. At first they'd thought them Tigers, odd as it seemed. So they'd preserved the bodies with a spell, and sent them to the king. The king had recognized the difference, or thought he did, and brought it up to Macurdy. Macurdy examined the corpses. The reddish to red hair, the green to green-hazel eyes, the strong build—all resembled a Tiger's. Rut the ears were wrong. A Tiger's ears were ylvin in size and shape. A rakutu's were furry, conspicuously longer, and lay less close to the head. To a degree they could even be directed forward like a voitu's, though not aft.

  But it seemed to Macurdy that Tigers, dressed in facsimiles of rakutik uniforms, could get to places, and carry out missions they otherwise could not.

  Assuming they did, in fact, become his Tigers. Presumably Five-Day would settle that.

  * * *

  On Five-Day, Vulkan stood on the ridge across the stream from the Cloister's parade ground. From there he had an overview. The body he wore differed from the normal porcine in more than size, brain, and eye color: his distance vision—both in magnification and resolution—was equivalent to an eagle's. And of course, he processed information exceedingly well.

  The review stand was new and freshly painted white, forty inches high and without railings. Its purpose was not to provide an elevated vantage for officers reviewing a parade, but to give people on the ground a view of the dynast.

  The afternoon was sunny and warm compared to recent days. The Cloister's personnel pretty much filled the parade ground, facing the stand, which was on the west side. The twelve Tiger companies and nine Guards companies stood in ranks on the other sides, forming a box. Within that three-sided box was everyone else, except those with a role in the ceremony.

  The review stand was flanked by honor guards. Immediately in front of it stood Sisters of high rank. To one side of them stood the Guards band.

  When the spectators were in place, the band began playing, sounding vaguely oriental. A short line of people entered the square, Macurdy one of them, and strode down an aisle through the crowd, more or less in time with the music. The other twelve were the highest-ranking people in the Sisterhood, administrative and military. When they reached the stand, they climbed the five steps to the top.

  Vulkan watched them form a shallow backswept vee, so the crowd at the sides could see the dynast when she took her place. Then the band changed tempo and volume, the trumpets leading a fanfare. Litter bearers entered the square, carrying the dynast on a litter. Leading and flanking them were Guardsmen in dress uniforms—bright blue trimmed with white and red. Drawn sabers glinted silver at th
eir shoulders, competing with the polished gold of plumed ceremonial helmets.

  Even at a distance, Vulkan could feel the crowd's reverence. The dynast was far older than anyone else of ylvin lineage had ever been. She was a granddaughter of the Sisterhood's founder, and had led it herself for more than two centuries. Against all odds, through magicks and strength of will, she'd brought it—driven it—through the bloodbath and terrors of the Quaie Incursion, escaping both ylver and Kormehri. Had engineered the agreement with the Silver Mountain dwarves. Had made an unlikely alliance with the Lion of Farside, contributing to the punishment of the ylver, and indirectly to the death of the elder Quaie.

  Starting with a camp of tents and crude shelters, at first without even a palisade, she'd created the present Cloister. And even suffering decline, had formed and driven a whole new foreign policy and economy. The Sisters were still somewhat less numerous than during their final century at Ferny Cove, but they were secure and increasing.

  Or feel more secure, Vulkan told himself watching. The rank and file knew little about the voitik invasion, which at any rate was hundreds of miles away.

  The litter bearers had practiced by carrying a large bowl of water on the litter, until they'd done it without spilling, even while negotiating the stairs. He did not doubt they'd perform as smoothly now.

  * * *

  While the crowd expected an announcement of the succession, Macurdy and Amnevi knew better. After all, Amnevi had planned this ceremony, which was to name Macurdy as the Sisterhood's military high commander. On the stand, he stood one position left of the vee's point, beside Amnevi. To his own left was General Grimval, commandant of the Guards. On Amnevi's right, stood Idri, her pregnancy beginning to show, and on Idri's right, Colonel Bolzar, the Tiger commandant. The vee was completed by executive Sisters whom Macurdy didn't know.

  With minimal head movement, he examined everything. Sarkia and Amnevi believed it was here, at this ceremony, that Idri would make her move, but Macurdy gave Idri no particular attention. Her first move, he suspected, would be to have Sarkia killed, but someone else would do it for her.

  The question was who. It seemed unlikely to be someone in the crowd, before the dynast reached the stand. Her escort took their duty seriously—two of them were his sons—and they had their sabers in their hands. It seemed to him it would be after her pronouncement.

  As the litter reached the stand, the fanfare bridged into a quieter movement. The litter and its retinue turned, and started around the stand to the steps. As the litter passed by the band, Macurdy spotted Koslovi Rillor playing an end-blown flute. Rillor! Macurdy almost jumped.

  Smoothly and carefully, the litter bearers mounted the steps. There was a small rack near the front of the stand. They engaged the litter on an elevated crosspiece, then lowered the foot to a piece sixteen inches lower. Macurdy was aware of them, but his attention was on Rillor. With the litter secured on the rack, the bearers stepped sharply back, moving to the ends of the vee, where they waited at attention. At that point the music ended, and the musicians lowered their instruments to a sort of present arms.

  A single attendant, Omara, remained by Sarkia, standing behind her and to the left. Now General Grimval stepped forward, to stand just behind the litter on the right.

  "Sisters! Guardsmen! Tigers!" Grimval's big voice boomed, a voice trained to bellow commands. "The dynast will now address you. Because she is frail, she will say a sentence and pause, while I repeat it for the more distant of you."

  The more distant, Macurdy thought. As weak as she is, that means anyone farther than the front row. Turning his head a few degrees, he watched Rillor from the corner of his eyes. His ears, however, were tuned to the dynast.

  "Sisters, Guardsmen, Tigers," she said. Her voice was weaker than it had been that spring, but it carried a sense of authority and rationality. What will! Macurdy thought.

  Unobtrusively, Rillor tucked his flute in its case, freeing his hands of it. The dynast continued.

  "I have few days more of life... It is time to turn over the dynast's throne to someone else... I have pondered long on who it should be."

  She spoke without notes, Grimval repeating each sentence or phrase verbatim. "It must be someone strong-willed and fearless... Someone who can deal effectively with the factions in our Sisterhood... Someone respected by other rulers..."

  Rillor had undone a single button on his tunic, reaching inside. Macurdy's body vibrated with readiness.

  "Someone powerfully charismatic... Someone who can make war but is not truculent..."

  "My God!" The whisper came from Amnevi, just off Macurdy's shoulder. "That's not..." She cut off, as if realizing she was thinking out loud.

  Macurdy knew who Sarkia was about to name as dynast. His scalp crawled.

  "Someone who does not want the job ... but will do it wisely, forcefully, successfully... Someone with the strength to turn it over to someone else, when the time of trial is past."

  Every mind, it seemed, was intent on the dynast's words. Every mind but Rillor's, and half of Macurdy's.

  Rillor drew from his tunic what might have been a flute, fumbled with it, raised it to his lips. At the same moment, Macurdy realized it was no flute. Beside Rillor, another flutist had become aware of Rillor's actions, and had turned toward him, mouth opening as if to ask what in hell he was doing. In a flash, Macurdy's right hand reached across his body for his heavy belt knife—

  "As our new dynast, I name Macurdy, the Lion..."

  Macurdy's arm flashed back, then forward, as Rillor's chest and cheeks inflated. The heavy blade slammed into and through his breastbone as he forcibly exhaled. There was a scream, and in two strides Macurdy was off the platform, leaping to the ground, hitting it in a forward landing roll. His momentum and two long strides brought him to the fallen Rillor, over whom the other flutist was kneeling. The head of the heavy knife told Macurdy where he'd hit Rillor, and that the man was dead.

  Macurdy turned to the stunned band director. "Play!" he barked. The word broke the director's paralysis, and calling an order of his own, he began to direct. Several instruments responded at once, raggedly, others picking it up. Then Macurdy bounded back onto the platform.

  The dart had struck Idri, of all people, its shaft sticking out of her shoulder. She'd sunk at once to the platform, more the result of realization and shock than of the poison. Colonel Bolzar knelt over her, pulled the dart free, and stared at it.

  "Put it down, Colonel," Macurdy snapped. Bolzar turned to stare at him. "Down!" Macurdy repeated. Slowly the colonel began to straighten, holding the dart like a small knife now, between thumb and forefinger. Macurdy slammed him between the eyes with the heel of his hand, and the colonel fell backward like a tree.

  * * *

  From his distant viewpoint, not even Vulkan's eyes had taken in all of it. Macurdy seemed in charge for the moment, but... Turning, the great boar set off at an angle down the ridgeside, picking his way at an irregular trot among the trees.

  * * *

  He needn't have worried. There was no Tiger uprising. Nor was the assembled throng ordered immediately back to work. While Omara spoke with the dynast, Macurdy and Amnevi conferred briefly with Grimval. It was Grimval who summarized for the crowd what had happened. Koslovi Rillor was the assassin. His target had been Sarkia. Macurdy's knife had struck as the dart was being launched, spoiling Rillor's aim.

  Actually, Macurdy had no doubt that Rillor's target had been himself, though initially—who knew? The blowgun had been pointed at him when Macurdy had thrown his knife. But he let it go at that.

  Nothing was said about Colonel Bolzar. That, Macurdy had decided, would wait till certain steps had been taken.

  After Grimval's brief talk, Macurdy addressed the crowd. He accepted, he said, the appointment as Sarkia's successor. Amnevi would continue as deputy. When he'd finished, he bent over Sarkia and spoke quietly. "You tricked me," he said. "Were you that sure of my answer?"

  She opened her eyes an
d chuckled faintly. "You are a person who takes responsibility," she murmured. "I had no doubt you'd accept."

  He nodded. And, he added to himself, you reminded me it could be temporary. In fact, he was glad she'd named him dynast, instead of simply military overlord. The realization felt strange to him.

  * * *

  The musicians had recovered their poise. Now they played again, an almost sprightly march, and accompanied by her retinue, Sarkia was borne from the parade ground. When they were well away, and the band had stopped, Amnevi dismissed the assembly. The Tigers marched to their barracks, and the Guards to theirs, without tension. Talking quietly, the Sisters walked in clusters to their jobs or their quarters.

  * * *

  Colonel Bolzar had been taken to the infirmary with a severe concussion. Macurdy wrote an order relieving him of command, and arresting him, on charges of conspiracy to depose the dynast by force. Idri had threatened Sarkia repeatedly with a Tiger takeover, to force concessions. That was widely known.

  But Macurdy delayed having the arrest order posted. Instead he sent for the Tiger Captain Skortov, and afterward for the Tiger sergeant major. He asked each of them what prominent Tiger officer had been most free of Idri's influence. Each named the same man, a Captain Horgent. Horgent had been the commander of Omara's Tiger guard platoon in the Quaie War. And though he a been regarded as an excellent officer, Idri had bypassed him repeatedly for promotion above captain.