"True, my son," replied Bardi. "But that is ever the dilemma of the leader. As I have said, deltas are unintelligent and thus pose no threat to him who commands them. But no leader can minutely oversee every act of a multitude of followers, however abjectly obedient. Hence he must have able, intelligent subordinates to serve him; and able subordinates may conceive ambitions of their own."
"Who are Orlandus' officers?"
Bardi waved his hands helplessly. "Little is known of the inner workings of his empire, save that he hath a lieutenant, clept Parthenius."
"I have met Master Parthenius," growled Thorolf. "He is the sort to whom, if he were drowning, I should be happy to throw an anvil. Any others?"
"Likewise he hath a treasurer, hight Cadolant, whom I believe unpixilated. There are others, but I know them not.
"Now I shall run a divination anent that squad of Carinthians who take such an unwonted interest in a respectable sergeant of the Rhaetian Army."
-
Daylight was fading when Thorolf, his suspicion of the Duke of Landai's men confirmed by Bardi's divination, approached the barracks. A voice spoke out of the deepening dark:
"Hist! Thorolf!" It was Sergeant Regin, who had often chaffed Thorolf on his virginity.
"Aye?" replied Thorolf. "What is't?"
"Keep in the shadows and whisper," muttered Re-gin. "First, go not into the barracks!"
"Why not?"
"There's a plot against you. If ye show your face therein, 'twill be the ax or the rope."
"Good gods! What's all this?"
"During the day, a fellow in a yellow coat rode up, handed the sentry a packet, and departed. The packet was addressed to the Colonel, old Gunthram himself. By a few shrewd questions, I learnt that the packet encompassed treasonable correspondence betwixt you and the Court of Carinthia, setting forth plans for the conquest of Rhaetia."
Thorolf pressed his lips together. "And you believed it not?"
"Such treasons and stratagems from my innocent pure-in-heart? Nay; I know you too well."
"Methinks I could prove these letters forgeries. He of the yellow jacket sounds like one of Orlandus' minions."
"Chance it not, Thorolf! The officers' quarters buzzed like a nest of angry wasps. Gunthram never did take to your promotion, holding scholars too airy-fairy day dreamy to be trusted with military duties. He brought the officers' council around to his way of thinking."
"If you can call what he does thinking," muttered Thorolf.
"True; but it remains that, step inside yon gate and ye are a dead man. Here, I've collected some of your chattels, with some food." Regin handed over a backpack and a crossbow.
"You're sure of this?" said Thorolf hesitantly.
"Aye forsooth! Here's a broadside fresh from the press, which they've made up in case ye failed to report back."
Thorolf fumbled in the pack and brought out his igniter and tinderbox. Having charged the chamber with tinder, he cocked the device and pulled the trigger. A click preceded a shower of sparks, and the tinder blazed up. Thorolf held the crudely printed paper in the wavering yellow light and read: REWARD FOR CAPTURE, DEAD OR ALIVE, OF THOROLF ZIGRAMSON, FORMERLY ACTING SERGEANT OF ...
The flame went out. Thorolf said: "Whither should I flee? North to Carinthia or south to Tyrrhenia?"
"Neither! They've already sent out men to guard the passes. After this yellow-coated rogue departed, a squad in the dress of traveling merchants inquired after you in the barracks. 'Twas thought they were Carinthians, which did convince the waverers amongst the officers that ye were indeed a traitor."
Thorolf grunted. "That's what in literature we call irony. Those are men of Duke Gondomar of Landai, seeking to slay me."
"What hath Gondomar against you?"
"I rescued a damsel from his clutch."
"What'll ye do? Hide in the city?"
"Nay; with Gondomar's men, and the Sophonomists, and mine own comrades looking for me with no kindly intent, my chances were those of a pollywog in a pond of pike. I'll hie me into the higher mountains."
"Ye'll get lost or fall off a cliff!"
"I know the land well; I've spent many leaves in climbing. Three years since, I went thither with Professor Reccared of the college and a troll guide, seeking beasts for the Zoological Park."
"The trolls will devour you!"
"Methinks I can handle trolls; I know several in the mountains. And what alternative is there? Didst include any of my money in this pack?"
"Nay; to withdraw it from the regimental bank were sure to arouse suspicion." Regin hauled out his purse. "I can let you have a few pence. 'Tis all I have; I lost the rest gaming with File Leader Munderic. But what about your mare? She'll not be easy to take from the stables by stealth."
"I'm leaving her in your care," said Thorolf. "Whither I'm going, a horse were more hindrance than help. Thanks for the money. When I return, I'll repay you the principal in cash, with interest in the form of tales of mine adventures. Good night!"
-
Thorolf walked swiftly back to Doctor Bardi's house. If the old wizard did not use the wrong formula and turn him into an olifant, Bardi could put a temporary spell of illusion on him. Thorolf might also, he hoped, be able to touch Bardi for a loan. A man on the dodge needed money, and some upland peasants were a tight-fisted lot.
At the iatromage's house, Thorolf was surprised to see the door ajar. Either Bardi was becoming more woolly minded than ever, or ... Just in case there might have been intruders, Thorolf laid hand on hilt and pushed his way in.
All was dark. Thorolf moved as silently as a stalking cat. He felt his way down the hall to the sanctum, the door of which was ajar. Silence lay as thick as the lid of a coffin.
He fired his igniter. The yellow flame showed a room in disorder—even greater disorder than usual. A chest had been upset, dumping out its contents. Books had been pulled from the shelves and scattered. Thorolf's boot struck one of the skulls lying on the floor; the cranium rolled away half a turn, seeming to grin up at him.
Before his light went out, Thorolf spied an unlit candle in a copper candlestick atop a row of books. He recharged and fired the igniter and got the candle lit. By the yellow light he espied a human foot projecting from behind a settle. He moved quickly; the foot proved to be that of Doctor Bardi, who lay supine with his throat cut.
Thorolf grunted. While he and Bardi had never been close, he had known the old wizard for years, had applied to him for the cure of ailments, and had become fond of him despite the mage's failing powers. He wondered: Was it common robbers, or Gondomar's men, or the Sophonomists who had slain the mage?
He thought the last the likeliest. Orlandus had learned from Yvette that Thorolf had rejected her offer. Thorolf had heard that Sophonomists were implacable toward traitors and apostates. Their leader assured them that they might, without guilt or qualm, cheat, betray, assault, rob, or slay those hostile to the Cause.
Thorolf had shrugged off such remarks as the typical inflation of rumors; but the speaker had evidently known whereof he spoke. They might well have added the name of Thorolf Zigramson to their list of enemies. Perhaps they thought that Bardi had advised him to reject Yvette ...
He scrutinized the room. The murder must have occurred at least an hour earlier, soon after Thorolf had left Bardi's house the last time. Bardi's blood, black in the candlelight, was fast drying but was not yet altogether dry.
So there was no point in crying the haro. The killers would have escaped; if Sophonomists, they would be back in their castle. From what Chief Constable Lodar had told him, there would be little use in setting the Constabulary after them. In fact, if Thorolf were found here, he would become the prime suspect. While he avidly yearned to bring the killers to book and to avenge his friend, it began to appear as if it would be all he could do to assure his own continued existence.
The settle behind which lay the corpse had not been overturned, but the seat lid had been raised and the contents scattered. Bardi had k
ept his dirty clothing in the settle, awaiting the weekly visits of the washerwoman. Beneath the soiled garments he also kept a small chest containing a substantial sum in gold; this chest was now missing. Thorolf had advised the wizard to put the money in a bank; but Bardi, having once been burned in a bank failure, was bank shy. He had assured Thorolf that the chest was securely locked by a spell; but Thorolf knew that such spells were easily cancelled by any competent magician.
Thorolf wondered how to get out of Zurshnitt. The army would surely have alerted the gate guards, and Bardi had not lived to put an illusion spell upon him. He still had the protection of Bardi's counterspell against illusions and possession, but that would wear off erelong.
Thorolf hunted until he came to a wardrobe holding Bardi's spare robes. He chose a loose one bedight with magical symbols and pulled it on over the knapsack.
A half-hour later, limping heavily, bent to look hunchbacked, and leaning on Bardi's walking stick, he came to the West Gate. When challenged, he said in a disguised voice:
"I be Doctor B-Bardi's new apprentice, F-Fermin by n-name, may it p-please the gallant captain."
With a bored wave, the soldier signaled Thorolf to proceed. Thanking the small histrionic skills that he had obtained by taking part in amateur plays at the university at Genuvia, Thorolf vanished into the night.
-
VI – Empyrean Exile
Along the higher valleys of the Sharmatts. Thorolf Zigramson plodded unhappily upward, ever upward. On either hand rose the somber green, conifer-clad slopes; above these the iron-gray screes; and beyond these the glaring white of snow and glaciers. With the great love of his life in the goetic grip of Orlandus and three sets of enemies seeking his gore, his hopes of an academic career and of union with his beloved seemed farther off than ever.
He felt grossly inadequate. True, his officers had often praised him for bringing his men up to standard in equipment, discipline, and general conduct; they had dangled promises of promotion. But he uneasily felt that his soldierly success had been at best a lucky accident. Any time, some untoward event would expose him as an incompetent impostor.
He marched grimly on. At least, he had come through recent armed encounters unscathed. A professor at Genuvia, Doctor Vipsanio. preached the philosophy called Chaoticism, which Thorolf found consoling. The burthen was that life, nature, and the universe were so unpredictable, and man so at the mercy of unforeseeable events, that one should neither give up hope in a parlous strait nor think that any success had made one proof against future disasters.
Since Thorolf had no camping equipment, he had slept in barns whose owners furnished an overnight hayloft and a meal in exchange for stories and gossip. The third day out, he was getting into the heart of the Sharmatts, above the treeline. A few late-blooming flowers gleamed in the scanty meadows. The barns had ceased, and the snowline lay not far above.
Thorolf thought he could handle trolls, from his experience with Doctor Reccared's guide and with the few he had met on fishing trips into the Dorblentz Range. He rehearsed the expected meetings. Thus he was not startled when a troll stepped out from behind a boulder and pointed an iron-tipped spear, croaking in Trollish:
"Who ye?"
Thorolf had learned Trollish from his few contacts and some book study. Shifting Bardi's walking stick to his left hand to free his sword arm, he answered:
"Me friend."
"So?" said the troll, approaching with a broad grin on its wide mouth, displaying large yellow teeth. The creature was the height of a short human being but so massively muscular as to make Thorolf, as strong as any man in his company, feel puny. Beneath its beetling brows gleamed pale-blue, sunken eyes, a wide, flat nose, and a receding chin half concealed by a scanty beard of tawny-yellow hair like that which clothed its barrel-shaped torso and stubby, thewy limbs. Trolls wore no clothes, their fur providing adequate cover. This one said:
"No goat?"
"No goat? What mean?" said Thorolf, puzzled.
"Who you, lowlander weakling?" demanded the troll, ignoring Thorolf's question.
Thorolf identified himself, adding: "Me know Chief Yig, in Dorblentzes."
"Chief Yig? Ah!" The troll put a little bone whistle to its mouth and blew. A dozen other yellow-furred, blue-eyed trolls emerged from behind the rocks and leisurely strolled toward Thorolf, grinning. All bore spears, bows, or slings.
"Say know Yig," the first troll told its fellows.
"Ah!" said the other trolls in chorus, moving closer. "Yig you friend?" asked one.
"Aye; us blood brothers."
"Ah!" said the trolls together. With a lightning rush, they sprang upon Thorolf from every side. Before he could draw a weapon, they had seized his arms and legs in a grip of inhuman strength and threw him supine. If they had been human, he would have given a good account of himself; but he was like a doll in the trolls' hairy hands. Keeping his composure with effort, he said:
"What is? Me friend!"
"You Yig friend," said the first troll. "Yig us foe. So you us foe."
It occurred to Thorolf that he should have looked into the shifting feuds and alliances among the trollish tribes before he ventured into their lands. He said:
"Me no harm. What you do?"
"You see," said the first troll. Four trolls, one gripping each limb, picked Thorolf up and bore him along the trail. To his demands, they merely grinned and replied:
"You see!"
-
After an hour in this painful position, Thorolf was borne into a kind of natural amphitheater, around which the mouths of several caves gaped in the hillside. The area was dotted with tents of hide and swarmed with trolls of both sexes and all ages. The air was thick with rough trollish voices, the clang of a forge, and an overpowering stench of unwashed bodies and rotting garbage.
At the farther end of the depression, a smelting oven rose against the hillside, sending up a plume of orange flame against the darkling sky. Trolls bustled about it. Others emerged from the nearest cavern mouth with sacks on their bent backs, which they emptied on the piles of minerals surrounding the smelter. Nearby, a troll was forking browse into a pen containing a dozen goats.
Trolls clustered about the arriving party, croaking questions. The trolls bearing Thorolf shouted: "Make way! Make way! Have meat!"
They approached a formidable-looking troll with a necklace of bear claws, who sat on a boulder whittling arrow shafts. Deftly removing Thorolf's sword and dagger, the captors set him on his feet, while two retained their grip on his arms.
"Who ye?" said the large troll.
Thorolf repeated his identification and added: "Who you?"
The big troll chuckled and replied in fluent if heavily accented Rhaetian: "My good fellow, ye have the honor of addressing Chief Wok, ruler of the Sharmatt trolls. Since ye have trespassed without leave on our lands, without bringing tribute, and since the dragon hath taken many of our goats, we find that we must needs use you to balance our diet."
"Dost mean to eat me?" cried Thorolf.
"Aye," said the troll.
Doctor Reccared, Thorolf remembered, had a theory that tales of trollish man-eating were merely a reflection of racial prejudice, and that they never ate human beings. Reccared, he thought, should be in his boots right now. He said:
"If you do this, it will cause you endless trouble with the Zurshnitters. I am a respected sergeant in the Rhaetian Army." Wok merely chuckled again.
Thorolf raised his voice: "They'll send an army and slaughter your folk, the innocent with the guilty!"
Wok wagged a thick forefinger. "My dear fellow, we shall make sure that nought of you or yours remain in such form that the deed could be traced to us. Your garments, however necessary to lowland weaklings, are of no use to us; they shall therefore be burned. We shall make new hilts for your weapons, to fit our larger hands."
"How do you plan to cook me?" asked Thorolf.
The troll chief pointed to the center of the clearing. A large iron pot wa
s suspended by a gantry over a fire laid but not lit. "We shall boil you, of course," said Wok.
Thorolf fought to retain his composure. "Not alive, I hope!" he said in a casual tone, as if that were merely a minor inconvenience.
"Nay, nay. It were too much of a struggle to get you into the pot alive. Ye shall be well dismembered."
"I knew not that you trolls could make so big a cauldron," said Thorolf. As he spoke, he frantically searched his memory for something he had heard or read.
Wok chuckled. "That is our smith's masterpiece. It took endless hammering and reheating and filing to make it watertight."
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