A Wizard and a Warlord

by Christopher Stasheff

Finally the sergeant called, "That should do him, now. Haul him out and see if he's improved."

  The soldiers yanked and Gar came out of the tub, lurching forward until he saw the spear point aimed at his chest and froze. He was pink and glowing with the scrubbing; he felt as though there couldn't be a patch of skin left on his whole body.

  Then a cold breeze blew and he began to shiver. The sergeant threw him a length of rough cloth that would have made burlap look fine. "Rub yourself down with that. Boys, fetch him our largest uniform." Uniform? Looking out over the camp, Gar saw that all the men were indeed wearing brown tunics and tan leggins. They were lounging around a broad clearing a hundred feet across, a natural tableland that supported only a few trees, enough to give cover to sixty tents and the men who lived in them. The fires were low and smokeless, the ground trodden bare. Here and there, a man was chopping wood or hauling water, but most were sharpening their weapons or currying their horses.

  Cloth struck Gar in the face.

  "There, that's the largest we've got," the sergeant said. "It will have to do. Help him into it, boys."

  The soldiers cheered with the fun of another game. Gar squawked as they descended on him, yanking the tunic down over his head; he heard something rip. They knocked him down to pull the leggins up and lash them in place with black cross garters. Gar started to fight, then caught himself and throttled it down to only enough to convince them he was a terrified, uncoordinated idiot.

  Finally they hauled him upright and yanked the cowl of his tunic up to cover his head.

  "There you are, Sergeant," one of them said, thumping Gar on the chest as he turned to his boss. "As smart a soldier as you've ever seen."

  The sergeant looked and brayed laughter.

  Gar could imagine why. The sleeves of the tunic seemed as tight as tourniquets; their cuffs ended three inches below his elbows. The seams at the shoulders had split, leaving several inches of bare skin, and the only reason the leggins weren't cutting off his circulation was because they had been sewn to be twice as wide as a man would need, depending on the cross garters to make them fit. Gar wore the cross garters because his "fellow" soldiers had tied them on, not because he needed them. The leggins ended halfway down his shins, of course, and they'd had to cut off the ends of the buskins, leaving his toes sticking out. At least, when General Malachi sees me, he won't recognize me.

  "Well, you'll do, I suppose," the sergeant said. "Come on now, and I'll show you the quarry we're set to watch."

  He led Gar over to the edge of the plateau, the other soldiers trooping along around him with raucous comments.

  "Down there." The sergeant pointed.

  Gar looked down where the hillside fell away, the tops of the trees dropping in steps, letting him clearly see the shining curves of the river below, the tawny line of the road that intersected it, and where they joined, the sprawl of the town in which he had slept the night past.

  They put him to work hauling water to the kitchen and timbers to the men who were setting up a wooden wall. After dinner, though, Gar had a few minutes to himself. He gazed off into space with vacant eyes, which no one would think unusual in a half-wit, but his mind was engaged in a lively discussion.

  Don't worry about me, Alea I'm in no danger, worse luck.

  Why not? Alea asked, but couldn't keep the message free of her feelings of relief.

  Thanks for caring, Gar answered, his thoughts colored by the warmth of affection. Apparently General Malachi isn't going to be here for some time, if at all-this is just an outpost, a handful of troops here to scout the lay of the land and the best routes for invasion. Until Malachi does come, no one's apt to recognize me-especially not in their own uniform, if you can call this outfit that.

  Don't sound so disappointed, Alea thought. If the chief bully isn't coming, why are you bothering to stay?

  Because this is an excellent place to learn his plans, Gar answered, and when I know their invasion tactics, I can warn the town and tell them how to defend themselves. They could do what these bandits are doing, for starters-build themselves a wall of sharpened timbers.

  Then I'll go tell them so! Alea thought. At the very least, I can tell them they're in danger.

  A good thought, Gar said slowly, but if General Malachi has agents in the town, you could be in danger.

  I accepted danger when I landed on this planet, Alea retorted. How about you? There's a limit to how many men you can fight off by thinking at them!

  There's danger, yes, Gar thought slowly, but I've faced much worse, and this is too good a chance to pass, upstudying the enemy on his home ground.

  Alea caught the overtones to his thoughts, and frowned. There's more to it than that, isn't there? You're still hoping to find a government!

  No, I've given up on that, Gar answered, but I might learn something about this band of thugs, and why such a gentle civilization could produce so many of them.

  Alea set out at first light and came back to the town in the afternoon. As she walked down the road and in among the houses, she saw what Gar meant about a wall-there was nothing to keep anyone from simply walking in, as she had, and the broad stretches of grass and patches of garden around the city were an open invitation to horsemen to enter riding, trampling vegetables and people. She remembered the charred timbers of the new village and shuddered. That could not be allowed to happen again!

  She stopped the first citizen she saw by catching his shoulder. "Sir," she commanded, "defend yourself!"

  15

  The citizen was an old man, nearly bald, but with quick, bright eyes that took her in at a glance, weighed her, and decided to take her seriously. "Defend myself? Why? Do you mean to strike me?"

  "Not only you," Alea said impatiently, "your whole town! And no, it won't be me who attacks you--it will be General Malachi with all his army!"

  The man relaxed with a smile. "General Malachi? Is that all?"

  "All!" Alea squawked. "Burning your houses and looting your shops? Slaughter and torture? All?" The man waved away the threat. "Surely it won't come to that. The Scarlet Company will stop him before he comes near."

  "Tell that to the four villages he conquered! Tell it to the smoking, charred ruin that was the hopeful beginning of a new village! Tell it to the young folk who were killed or hauled away to slave and whore for Malachi's bandits! Tell it to the young men who mean you no harm but will come charging against you with swords in their hands because they've spears at their backs!"

  The citizen stared, unnerved, but collected himself and objected, "Surely you exaggerate."

  "No, actually, I'm holding back the worst of it."

  "It can't happen here," the man said with finality. "Perhaps in a small village full of peasants, but this is a town. General Malachi wouldn't even try."

  "Wrong! Being a town is all the more reason for him to ride down upon you! You're wealthy, you have a huge store of riches to delight his men-and with your barges, he can ferry his army across the river and start conquering the villages there!"

  "Then surely the Scarlet Company will stop him here," the man said stubbornly. "If you really think there's danger, good woman, you're perfectly free to scream it from the rooftops-but I don't think you'll find any to believe you. Good day."

  He turned away and Alea nearly did scream with exasperation.

  She did, however, walk up and down every street and lane in the town, telling everyone she met, as loudly as she could, about their danger. Most of them glanced at her with frightened eyes and hurried on their way, leaving her to turn and finish her sentence to the next person before that one, too, scuttled away. Now and then she managed to back a man or woman into a corner, haranguing the person until she was finally asked, insistently and sometimes angrily, to stop spouting such nonsense.

  She could have wept with frustration.

  By the time sundown came and she slumped exhausted onto a bench outside an inn, she was past anger and on the verge of despair. The fools, the blind fools! They almos
t deserved to have General Malachi and his troops grind them into their river mud.

  Almost. No one deserved that, not even selfblinded, complacent idiots.

  She needed someone to listen to her rant about them-and it must be dinnertime for the troops. Gar, she thought, can we talk?

  His answer was so immediate that she knew he must have been waiting for her call. Of course, though there isn't much to tell-only the usual soldier's round of drudgery and boredom. They do have some idea of drill, though it's very rudimentary-only making us practice marching forward with spears in our backs while they shout and bellow at us and wave weapons in our faces.

  Making sure you'll be more afraid of them than of the enemy you face, Alea thought sourly.

  It's working on most of the other footmen, Gar told her. They must be captives from the villages Malachi has conquered.

  Alea's stomach sank. Do you-do you recognize any of our teenage hosts?

  One or two, but they're so dull-eyed and cowed that I don't think they'd recognize me even if I were dressed as they last saw me-and the wide-eyed cringing simpleton I'm playing should be safe from discovery.

  I certainly hope he is. Alea could easily imagine one of the young men betraying Gar in hopes of a little consideration from his captors.

  What luck in the town? Gar asked.

  Absolutely none, Alea thought in disgust. These people wouldn't believe the dam had broken unless they were breathing water!

  Don't they believe the stories about General Malachi? Oh, they believe them easily enough. In fact, everybody has heard of him-but nobody believes he'd attack anything as big as their town!

  I've heard of cities deluded by their own self-importance. Gar sighed. But this is too much. Won't a single one of them lift a spear in his own defense?

  Why bother? Alea thought bitterly. They're convinced the Scarlet Company will protect them-bring General Malachi and his army to their knees overnight! I tell you, if their complacency has any grounds, the Scarlet Company must be a full-scale army!

  Perhaps it is, Gar thought somberly, just very well hidden. Well, if they won't listen to you, they deserve what they get-but maybe they have a reason for their calm.

  If they do, they're certainly closemouthed about it, Alea replied. No one's ever seen the Scarlet Company, or anyone from it-though I suppose it could be that they're so scary no one wants to even think about them.

  Well, if we can't find out what they're like now, Gar thought, maybe we can get some idea from their history. I'll ask around and see if anyone knows ...

  Don't you dare! Alea's thought had all the force of terror. Your only protection is seeming to be an idiot, and simpletons don't go around asking about the past! The ones I knew back ho-back on Midgard, they didn't even know there was a past!

  If you say so, Gar thought doubtfully, but we have to know whether or not there's any reason to hope that the Scarlet Company will bail them out.

  I'll ask! You just sit tight and watch! If anybody here knows anything more about the Scarlet Company than we do, I'll find out by this time tomorrow!

  You don't think anyone does know about it, do you? Gar asked slowly.

  I'm beginning to doubt that it exists, Alea thought grimly. I'll ask anyway, though-tomorrow. Right now, I'd better find a safe place to'sleep.

  The next morning, Alea set out to discover anyone who knew anything about the Scarlet Company. She strolled along the docks, claiming to be hunting a missing bondmate and refusing offers to take his place. She worked a mention of the Scarlet Company into every conversation while she listened intently for the other person's thoughts but never caught anything coherent, only a passing aura of admiration and fear. She did see a great number of barges and smaller riverboats coming in, watched their owners bargain with wholesalers, then watched them unload produce and reload salt, spices, iron ingots, bars of tin and copper, and the other commodities that a farming village needed but couldn't produce for itself.

  Then she made the rounds of the town limits, reasoning that travelers would have heard of the Scarlet Company, and struck up conversations where the town streets joined the main roads. She saw cart after cart coming in filled with preserved hams, barrels of salt beef and ale, furs and sheepskins and bales of wool; she saw other carts rolling out with more metal and dye and other things the villagers didn't have around them-but no one she talked to had the guilty or guarded reactions she expected of a Scarlet Company member.

  In the evening, she paced from neighborhood to neighborhood, seeing the people come out of their cottages to chat and play while the older citizens sat in circles and discussed earnestly whether or not a given girl should be bonded to a given boy, whether a young man who had struck another was a bully and should be exiled, working out a schedule for their neighbors to haul away garbage, even listening to an argument between two women as to whether or not the first woman had the right to milk the other's cow if it wandered into her yard (they decided that the two should barter for the milk and build a stout fence). Wherever she could, Alea mentioned the Scarlet Company, but her mind caught only the usual awe, and sometimes relief that the Scarlet Company was there to stop bullies.

  Finally, as darkness fell, she traded a bit of copper for a bed in the single-women's room at an inn, chatted with her neighbors and managed to mention the Scarlet Company, but received only the usual answers, then politely excused herself for her evening "meditations." The other women stared at her in surprise, then quickly said "Of course" and left her alone.

  Alea felt a moment of surprise of her own, at their obvious awe-even if it was rare for a person to meditate before sleeping, surely it wasn't anything remarkable-then settled herself, let the cares of the day drift through her mind, slow, and settle, then thought, Gar.

  Here. Gar's thoughts were unutterably weary. Alea's mind moved to a higher level of alertness. What has happened?

  Nothing, Gar thought, but it could have. Then he remembered the key incident of the day, letting her share it with him.

  The recruits had come marching into camp at daybreak-or trying to march, anyway; they hadn't quite caught the knack of stepping in unison, and the broken branches they were carrying in lieu of spears lay at all different angles across their chests. Nonetheless, they were at least trying to look military. When their leader called, "Halt!" they all stamped as they stopped.

  So did Gar's heart, almost. He recognized the hard-faced leader-Crel, one of the few free survivors of the young people's village. When he had first seen the lad, his face had glowed with health, happiness, and the pleasure of the company of his youthful friends. He had been smiling, easygoing, and genial. Now, though, he was gaunt, steely-eyed, and tense.

  The lieutenant came forward grinning. "Very good, very good-for men who haven't been taught a thing. So you want to join General Malachi's army, do you?"

  "We do!" the men chorused, turning to him. "Keep your eyes front!" the lieutenant snapped. They jumped and whipped their gazes back to the hair of the men ahead of them.

  "Shoulders straight! Bellies in! Hold those spears straight up, if you can remember which end you think has the tip!" The lieutenant prowled along the line. "You're filthy, you stink, your clothes are ragged! You all need your hair cropped to your skulls! You're undisciplined-you need kicking into line!" He paused at the front, grinning at the leader. "Still want to join?"

  "Yes!" Crel spat, and the others echoed him.

  The lieutenant nodded and started to stroll around them again. "Well, you might do at that. All right, off to the barracks with you. Sergeant Chester!"

  "Sir!" A sergeant came running, snapped to attention, and saluted more crisply than Gar had noticed in a day and night at the camp.

  "Take these men in charge," the lieutenant commanded. "See them scoured, shorn, and uniformed. Burn those rags they're wearing, then set them to their tasks."

  "Yes, Sir!" Sergeant Chester turned to face the recruits. " 'Ten-shun! No, not like that suck those bellies in! Drop those sticks
, they'll do for the fire. Thumbs along the seams of your leggins! Square those shoulders, don't pull 'em back! All right, now, march! "

  They followed him toward the tents. Too late, Gar realized he was in their line of march and started to turn away-but Crel saw him. His eyes widened with the shock of recognition and Gar could hear his thought: Was he a spy for the bandits all along? Then Gar's pitiful stance must have registered, because he thought, No, the poor man's a captive and a slave. Then he marched on and Gar breathed a sigh of relief.

  He wasn't about to rely on the boy's first reaction, though-he might change his mind when he thought it over. Gar watched and, when the lad went to the latrine, Gar went after him.

  Crel looked considerably better for a wash, a shave, and clean clothes, but the harshness and bitterness were still there in his face. He glanced up as Gar came in-then stared and braced himself for a fight.

  "Easy, easy," Gar said softly, hoping no one would hear through the canvas walls. "I'm just the village idiot out to visit the necessary room. You don't have to have that much intelligence to know how to use a privy."

  "Idiot!" Crel hissed. "Is that what they think you are?"

  "I've been very careful to make sure they think so," Gar said.

  "Then it was your father who came to our village." Crel's eyes filled at mention of the happy, hopeful pair of longhouses.

  "No, that was me," Gar told him. "I angered General Malachi in my proper form and he set patrols to find me. I disguised myself as an old man, and they rode right by me."

  "Then why disguise yourself as an idiot?"

  "Because they had begun to be suspicious of the old me. The idiot was a bad choice, though-brains don't matter in a human shield, and they're quite happy to have a bear like me to prod ahead of them onto the pitchforks of the enemy-should any of them think to try to fight back. I'd rather not disillusion them." He let that sink in for a few seconds, then added. "I gather you'd just as soon they didn't find out which village you came from, either."

  "That's right enough," the lad said slowly. "Are you making a deal?"