Tomorrow's Magic

by Pamela F. Service

  As he neared the edge of town, he stopped uncertainly. But unless Heather had ridden down to the lake to skip rocks on the ice, she'd probably taken the east-shore road. He turned his horse and was soon rewarded with the sight of fresh tracks in the crusted snow. Of course, they could have been made by another rider, but it was worth taking a chance they were hers.

  Farther down the road, Welly realized that there were several sets of tracks. His confidence faded. But he plodded on until he came to a spot where a single set left the others and crossed the River Derwent on an old stone bridge.

  Most farmers with horses had given them over to the King. Just his luck, Welly thought, if he was following one of the holdouts. Thinking again about wild geese, Welly urged his stocky mount across the bridge.

  There was cold and emptiness and then a hint of pain. It felt like nothing worth waking up to. Heather's mind tried crawling back into darkness, but there came a slap on her cheek, wet and warm. A very odd sort of thing, considering that she lay dying in a frozen quarry. Curiosity lifted a single eyelid.

  She stared straight into the face of a dog. Wonderful, she thought. Instead of bleeding or freezing to death, I'm going to be eaten. She hadn't the strength to make even basic frightening-away sounds.

  But if he wasn't to be frightened, the dog wasn't very frightening either. His fur was black with white splotches, and his mouth, which should be striking her with terror, was grinning, a pink tongue lolling stupidly to one side.

  Heather opened her other eye. Correction, there were two dogs. Both equally ridiculous-looking. One seemed intent on washing out her ear with its tongue.

  “Enough!” she gasped as the other's tongue slurped across her face. Obediently they stopped, and, whimpering happily, both dogs grinned down at her.

  Well, she'd have to get it over with, she thought, and moved one arm. No searing flash of pain. Slowly she tried to sit up, struggling out of a deep drift of snow. Snow, not rocks, she realized. That's why she wasn't shattered over the hillside.

  She looked down at the dogs and almost screamed. It was one dog—two heads, two tails, but one dog.

  Weird, really weird. But suddenly she wasn't afraid of them, or it. It clearly wasn't a fell-dog but some sheepdog pup that had been born a mutie and abandoned by the disgusted herder. Its ribs showed through the matted fur, but the eyes, all four of them, looked at Heather with trustful confidence. The two tails wagged steadily.

  Cautiously Heather reached out a hand and rubbed behind one set of floppy ears. The other head set to washing her hand.

  Who was that dog in mythology, the one that guarded Hades? Cerberus. “You're like him, aren't you?” she muttered aloud. “Only I guess you fall a little short. He had three heads. So I won't call you Cerberus, just Rus. You like the name Rus?”

  Both tails wagged furiously.

  “I wonder if I can stand up. If I stay down here, you'll lick me to death.”

  She flailed about in the snow, trying to bring her legs under her. Then came the jolt of pain. Her left ankle. Had she broken it? Twisted it?

  She tried again and almost retched with pain.

  “Oh, Rus,” she said angrily, “just when I thought I was going to live after all. Now I guess I'll die out here.”

  The dog whimpered, an odd two-part harmony, and began poking her with a forepaw.

  “Quit it, Rus. I can't get up, and you're not big enough for me to ride.”

  He was whining now and looking at her with such pathetic grins she couldn't help laughing. “All right, I'm not giving up that easily. I'll try again.”

  Cautiously she pulled her good leg under her, and slowly putting her weight on it, she tried to stand. Swaying, losing her balance in the deep snow, she instinctively stuck out her other foot to steady herself. The pain shot up her leg in a sickening wave, knocking her down into blackness.

  Whining, the dog poked around the unconscious heap in the snow.

  Several times Welly thought he had lost the trail. The road was getting rocky, often without enough snow for tracks. But he was following a road, at least. The rider before him, he guessed, would probably have done the same. The road climbed out of a gloomy pine grove, then rose steeply along the fringes of the fells. A rocky island-mountain, Castle Crag, towered on one side. Cliffs glistening with frozen waterfalls rose on the other.

  Finally he made the pass and, shifting in his saddle, surveyed the scene beyond. Borrowdale opened out below him on the left. The old road continued ahead along the base of the cliffs. No tracks led anywhere.

  Suddenly his horse shied, and he felt something leap against his leg. Alarmed, he looked down, and the thing barked and leaped again. A fell-dog, an awful mutie, trying to tear him right off his horse!

  With a frightened squeak, he struggled to pull his sword from under his heavy jacket. But the enemy was sitting in the snow, smiling with both of its jaws, wagging both of its tails.

  Gods, it was ugly, he thought. But at least it wasn't lunging at him anymore.

  The creature barked doubly. Jumping up, it ran several feet away, then stopped and looked back expectantly.

  “That's right; you can leave, as far as I'm concerned,” Welly said, lowering his sword.

  It ran at him again, barking, then spun around and ran off a few feet. Welly just stared at it. Was this incredible creature rabid, too?

  The dog repeated the performance several times to the accompaniment of multiple barking. Welly shook his head. “I actually believe you want me to follow you. But I can't; I'm looking for someone out here and I …”

  His gaze had gone beyond the dog, down the direction it seemed to be pointing. At the head of a small, nearly hidden valley, he caught a flicker of movement. A horse switching its tail. Heather's horse! “She went off that way!” Welly spurred his own horse down the road again with the dog prancing and barking ahead. Reaching the old wall, he dismounted and tied his horse beside Heather's. The two animals nickered happily at each other and rubbed noses.

  The dog was already through the gap in the wall and peering back at Welly with both heads.

  “All right, I guess I am going your way. But go on, keep your distance. I still don't like the looks of you.”

  The dog shot on ahead, occasionally stopping to bark impatiently as the stout boy struggled up the slope behind him. On the shifting hillside of shale tailings, Welly alternated his puffs and gasps with colorful curses he'd picked up from Arthur's troops. Despite the cold, the climb soon had him itching with sweat. It was made doubly awkward by his having to clutch his sword in one hand in case that bizarre dog attacked again.

  Finally, gasping and shaking with exhaustion, he stood on the open plateau staring out to Borrowdale. Wearily he looked around and groaned. The summit still rose above.

  “Heather would go up there.” He sank down on a pile of stones. “Well, I can't. Not another inch, not just yet.”

  The dog was beside him again. Welly was too tired to shake it off when it grabbed his jacket cuff in one mouth while barking with the other. He stumbled to his feet and was relieved to see that the crazy dog wasn't leading him upward but along the level, back into an open gash in the mountainside.

  The quarry opened out. Above him, raw slate jutted in jagged slabs against the sky. Snow lay in white splinters among rocky chinks and crevasses and piled loosely over the huge stones at the quarry's base. In the center lay something else, dark and heaped.

  “Heather!”

  Through the deep snow, Welly ran clumsily toward the figure, but the dog got there first, poking and licking with both tongues.

  Heather groaned as Welly stumbled up. “Enough! Let me die in peace.”

  “Heather, what on earth … ? Never mind. Let's get you out of here.”

  “Who? Welly! How did you … ?”

  “Your funny-looking friend fetched me. Can you stand?”

  “No.”

  “Then I'll try to carry you. If we take that same awful route, you can probably slide most o
f the way.”

  Heather was fully awake now. Her ankle was too cold to feel much. “Uh, Welly …?” “Yes?”

  “I'm sorry I blew up at you. I'm a really mixed-up jerk.”

  “True. But at least you're not a dead one. Come on.”

  RIDING FORTH

  Welly pushed open a narrow window. Oily lamp smoke coiled out while cool tendrils of evening mist slipped in. He turned back and looked at the sleeping blanket-mounded figure on the bed.

  Beside her, Merlin finished his work and gently pulled the blankets back over her left ankle. Having wrapped her with bandages and spells, he now sat down beside his patient.

  The flickering lamp cast odd shadows and angles over his face. Heather moved her head restlessly on the pillow. Her hair had wisped free of its braids. Groggily she opened her eyes. She smiled vaguely. “It feels better already, Earl. But it shouldn't. I don't deserve it. I should be lying up there on that snowy mountain being eaten by fell-dogs.”

  “No, you shouldn't!” Welly objected. The dog lying beside the bed whined and began licking Heather's limp hand with one of its tongues.

  The wizard laughed. “These two would never have let you. You have some good friends, Heather.”

  “I know I do. All of you. But I don't deserve you. I was such a self-centered, headstrong idiot going off like that.”

  After a silence, Welly said, “I don't suppose you'd tell us why … ? ”

  Heather blushed and tossed her head. “Oh, Welly, I'm not even sure why. I was trying to … trying to find out about myself, I guess. I wanted to find out what was in me, what sort of power I have. I was tired of everyone but me knowing what I should do with myself. But it was just a big stupid failure.”

  “A failure?” Merlin questioned.

  “Yes, totally. I went up there because I thought it would be a place of power. Maybe it was, but I could scarcely feel it. All I could sense were the little animals in the dirt below me. Hurrying ants, sleeping mice. I'll bet even village witches do better than that. And they wouldn't be so blind as to stagger around the snowy edge of a quarry.”

  Merlin stood, looking sternly down on his patient. “Heather, you are blind, but not in that way. Sensing those small lives, talking with them, that is not small magic. It's not something great magicians learn as babies, then go beyond. Yours is a large power, I believe that now, but it's a different track of magic from mine. I could have stood on that mountain sensing the major lines of power and completely missed what you felt.”

  “Earl, if you're just saying that to make me feel better …”

  “No, you little twit! Look at this ridiculous animal here. Do you think he just happened on you accidentally? And if he did, do you think a half-starved pup would have led a rescuer to this convenient hunk of meat instead of dining on it? No, you had your mind open to that power, and when you fell, you called out for help. He heard and came.”

  With both tails wagging vigorously, Rus slipped one head under Heather's hand and allowed Merlin to pat the other. A thoughtful smile played over Heather's face. “Well, if I do have to have power, I guess this isn't such a bad kind. That is, if you're right about all this.”

  He frowned theatrically at her. “You dare question the judgment of the ancient wizard?”

  They laughed as he dropped into his chair and continued. “Anyway, I do have a royal command to convey. You are to get well as soon as possible. I tried to work that into my little healing spells. Arthur has decided to head east to join Carlisle against Queen Margaret and her Scots. We'll be leaving in a fortnight, and you and your battle-hound here might want to join us—unless, of course, you've decided it's time to stay behind and sew like a demure young lady.”

  Ducking back from her flying fist, he raised an eyebrow. “That's the message I'm to convey to His Majesty?”

  “Phrase it however you want. But I'll be riding with you.”

  Their once-quiet town now bustled with activity. Word had spread like smoke that the King was assembling a warhost. Farmers and shepherds took up whatever weapons came to hand and marched proudly through the passes and valleys toward Keswick. They came from fell and farmstead, from Grassmere, Ambleside, and Windermere, and from the coastal villages of Ravenglass and Whitehaven.

  While recovering, Heather watched the flurry of preparation. Excited half-wild horses were trained, metal scraps were hammered onto leather armor, and in the clanging glow of the smithies, weapons were forged or repaired. All the while, provisions for the growing army were gathered and stowed away in wagons and packs.

  On a cold day, when snow had turned to drizzling rain, Arthur gave word that they would march on the morrow. News had come that Queen Margaret had conquered Newcastle and forced a shaky alliance on Durham. It seemed likely she would move next against Carlisle, and they could wait no longer.

  The morning dawned clear and dry, with the sun rising like a bronze shield behind its pall of ancient dust. The hillside camps were astir early, and soon the valley resounded with protesting horses, creaking wagons, and yelling men.

  Excited children ran underfoot, some attempting to slip off and join the assembling troops, only to be dragged away by scolding mothers. Youngsters who had passed into their teens proudly joined the warriors' ranks, their eyes glistening with pride and the reflected adulation of their younger comrades.

  There were young men, too, and old, and some women as well. Some were veterans of skirmishes between shires, and others had never lifted a weapon. But all felt the lure of fame and adventure, the promise of fighting a grand war as in days of old, and of fighting for a king who came from the heart of legend itself.

  At last the army was ready to move. From the manor on the hill, the King's troop issued forth and took its place in the lead. Above them fluttered the banner of Pendragon, the winged gold dragon against a field of black. People who had flocked in from miles around lined the road, pointing out personages of note.

  At the head of the troops, clutching the King's standard, rode John Wesley Penrose, his pride as bright as the banner he carried. Just behind, on his large gray stallion, rode Arthur himself, the faint sun glinting off his armor, his helmet, and his golden hair.

  Near him rode the Duke of Ambleside, Kyle the harper, Otto Bowman, and others of the King's companions. With them, but in a large island of space, rode a pale young man, his hair the same midnight-black as his horse. Strapped to his saddle was a twisted wooden staff. Knowingly, locals told newcomers that this was Merlin the Enchanter. Even if he appeared far too young for the role, his dark look of brooding seemed suitably daunting.

  But while their friend was brooding and remote, Welly and Heather were thoroughly enjoying themselves. From the small troop of musicians marching behind rose the compelling throb of drums, the haunting call of pipes, and the ferocious, challenging blare of ram's horns. The towering fells echoed with the cheers and music, and Welly decided it wasn't all that essential that one ride a tall white charger to feel heroic and glory-bound.

  Gradually the troops pulled away from Keswick. The road was soon lined with rocks, not cheering people, but the drumbeats still rolled back from the hillsides, and the soldiers laughed and talked among themselves.

  In time, the drummers tired, and the army, concentrating on marching, was accompanied only by the sound of its own passage: the stomp of hoof and boot, the creaking of harness, the rumbling of wagon, and the casual scrape and clang of weapon against armor.

  Heather looked back at the glinting body of warriors winding dragon-like under the bare fells. Excitement was settling into contentment. With little effort, she could feel the determined, purposeful thoughts of the horses and the more distant annoyance of sheep as they scattered from the army's noise. She was still unsure of how she felt about her power or of the effect her having it made on others, but for now she willingly laid the question aside.

  Rus trotted happily beside her, both heads full of curiosity. There was a great deal to smell, see, and chase along the route, a
nd he constantly ran back and forth, dodging horse hooves and marching men.

  Only one thing troubled Heather, and that was the brooding cloud that seemed to hang over Merlin. Finally she urged her horse up to join his. He turned in his saddle with a weak smile but said nothing.

  “All right, Earl,” she said after a long silence. “What's the matter? You have a toothache or something?”

  He laughed dryly. “You know, it is rather like that. Something keeps nagging at me about … about all this.” He swept a hand through the air along the line of march, and Heather noticed several soldiers duck, thinking the wizard was casting a spell.

  She frowned, then pointedly ignored them. “You don't think we should move against Margaret now?”

  “No, that's not it, not in itself. Strategically this move makes sense, though in the long run it's Morgan, not Margaret, who is the greater danger. No, certainly, to unite Britain, Arthur must deal with the Scots first. But somehow, setting out today with the crowds cheering for the glory and honor of war …” He slammed a hand against his thigh. “We've been on this road before, Heather. And look where it ended!” He jabbed a hand upward at the shrouded sun. Again, nearby soldiers flinched.

  Heather shook her head. “But what other route is there?”

  “I don't know! That's what's eating me. I feel there must be another, one that doesn't lead us off a cliff. But I can't see it! If I could glimpse the future as once I could, or maybe if I could get some grasp of this new power …”

  He rode on, silent for several minutes. The cold wind ruffled his hair and the fur of the hood thrown back over his shoulders. Sighing, he looked up at the gray fells. “Yes, the new magic might be the key, or one of them. This world is new, starting again. It's no wonder things are different.”

  He pointed to a tumble of rocks on a bare hillside. “There's one of the differences now. Do you see?”

  “No, where? What … oh, yes, I see something. It's … it's a band of muties! Watching us.”

  “Yes, muties. Some are mutated only in body, you know, not in mind or spirit. They are part of this new world. It's theirs, too, whether we're comfortable with that fact or not. Some will work against us, no doubt, but not others, and in the end, Arthur must be their king as well.