Here and Now tsops-1

by Henry Lion Oldie

  “You shouldn’t say so, mister Jendrich...”

  “Oh, I’m so very sorry! And who was it that threatened to sell us out when we didn’t want to take him into the hideout?”

  “I was scared...”

  “Scared he was! With rats we have a short talk. A knife in the belly and the bowels on a branch. Tell us, what’s there between you and the margrave Siegfried?”

  “I...” The youth felt confused under the intent glances fixed on him. “I... I can’t be captured, by no means! I was going to your prince, to Razimir of Opolie. Look, take me to Wrozlav! You can do it! Surely you know all the paths!”

  “What, you have a bag full of golden amulets? The prince will be awfully glad to see you! Gold for us, you for him. The last hope, that is.”

  “I have no amulets. I’ve given the last one to the taverner. And as for hope... Maybe the truth is yours. I’m the only hope. Opolie won’t stand against Maintz...”

  “Young man, are you experienced in military art?” Giacomo Seingalt curved his brow sarcastically. “Are you a strategist? Do you suppose the prince Razimir will appoint you commander?”

  “You are mocking me. But I must! I want to give the prince this...”

  The youth opened his bag, began to rustle with the rags. There came to light a casket – shabby, triangular, marked in black, red and yellow chequers like a buffoon’s tights. Its paint had peeled off in some places, its edges were severely beaten. In addition to the casket in the bag there was a big hourglass.

  “A game, is it?” the chieftain made a contemptuous grimace.

  Giacomo nodded with confidence: “The ‘Triple Nornscoll’, or ‘Cheat the Fate’. I would play it in my time... We may amuse ourselves now, one way or another we’ll be sitting here doing nothing for a long time. Will you play, Jendrich? And you, young man? By the way, don’t you want to introduce yourself to your fellows in misfortune?”

  “Forgive me... My name is Martzin, Martzin Oblaz from the free city of Holne. From the former free city. But this is not an ordinary game. It has belonged to Byarn the Pensive.”

  “The mage from Holne?!”

  “Yes.”

  “What a rogue you are, lad! Stole the game from Byarn himself?! First he snitched the amulet, then the game! Or all at once? You’re desperate, and a doctor too... Want to join my gang?” It was hard to understand whether the chieftain was joking, mocking or talking seriously.

  “It would be better if I really stole it...” whispered Martzin faintly, lowering his eyes.

  “Didn’t steal? So where did you get it?”

  “This is a legacy. My teacher Byarn the Pensive died last week.”

  “Died?! Tell more lies! Mages – they live for a thousand years!”

  “Unfortunately, you are mistaken. Meister Byarn had a weak heart... I know this better than many others.”

  “Heart? Why didn’t he make himself healthy with magic and be over with it?”

  “Oh, mister Jendrich,” Martzin sighed heavily. The flame of the candle flickered, queer shadows swayed along the walls, and the hideout seemed for a moment unreal – as if the next moment it would flow like fog and disperse. “Don’t mistake a mage for God. The magic of healing uses the healer’s own power. This is not alike spells or taming of the elements. One cannot heal one’s own heart. And I... I’m just learning. Was learning.”

  “So how old was he, Byarn? Five hundred years? Seven hundred?”

  “Seventy two.”

  “A liar you are, kid! My old man lived up to ninety. And there you’ve got a mage!”

  “You may not believe me, but I’m telling the truth.” The youth pursed his lips, offended.

  “Begging your pardon for interrupting your absorbing discussion, but it seems that you, young man, wanted to expound to us the secret of your legacy. Why do you want to deliver this game to Wrozlav? Or do you hope that while practicing ‘Triple Nornscoll’ Razimir of Opolie will find the method of winning the war with the Maintz Mark?”

  “Strange as it is, you’ve almost guessed, mister Seingalt. Meister Byarn had made this ‘Nornscoll’ in his youth, soon after he finished studying with his teacher. With the help of this game...” Martzin became more and more excited, obviously hesitating: to tell more or to keep silent? His voice was trembling, drops of sweat appeared on his forehead. “With its help it’s possible to play again... to change anything! Any event that took place in the past can be turned back! Not to allow the war to begin at all. To change its course. Do you understand me?!”

  “To change? And your mage, that is, died all of a sudden?” Jendrich squinted unbelievingly. “He’d do better to play again our sinful life, to save Holne, to win for himself some hundred years! You’re hiding something, student...”

  “You are simplifying everything. Anyone can use the ‘Triple Nornscoll’ but its creator. In the hands of meister Byarn the game would lose its power.”

  “So he should have given it to your burgomaster. Or to a commander.”

  “I’ve suggested this to the teacher. But he refused. When Holne had already fallen, the teacher was considering sending me to the prince Razimir. But he lingered, hesitated... I don’t know why. Then I found him dead. The heart... And then I decided myself...”

  “Well, those mages, of course... Nothing’s clear, in short. They don’t know themselves what they want. But you here – you’re our fellow! Put the Maintz men above there to sleep! And we’ll get out, knife them all, take their horses – and to the forest. Straight to the prince Razimir, to deliver him your game. Come on, Martzin! Make your magic!”

  “I can’t,” the youth threw up his hands with a guilty look. “I studied only for three years. I learnt only to cause rain, and that with hail, too. The hail’s all right, it’s big, but the rain... The teacher would laugh: you, Martzin, he would say, lack anger for a heavy downpour. A duffer you are...”

  “Hail – and that’s all?!”

  “Well, some more trifles... But I can’t put anyone to sleep.”

  The chieftain spat on the floor. “I knew it. To babble everybody knows, and to do something – no one gives a hoot!”

  “Wait, wait! What if...” All the glances turned to Lukerda at once, and the girl became abashed, flushed shyly. And then she started jabbering, floundering and stammering with excitement, as if she was afraid she would be interrupted and wouldn’t be able to finish. “Let’s try ourselves! Ourselves! So that there won’t be a war! Tell us, Martzin, your game... can anyone play it?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes,” the youth glanced at the taverner’s daughter with surprise, as if seeing her for the first time. Apparently, such a thought just hadn’t occurred to him. The idea of delivering the game to the prince Razimir had possessed his soul since the moment of his teacher’s death, and he hadn’t thought of anything else.

  “Then why deliver it to the prince? Maybe we can do it?! And if not – the game won’t lose its power, will it? Right, Martzin?”

  “Yes.”

  “If we don’t manage, you’ll take the game to Wrozlav!”

  “He lies, this Martzin, he does,” Jendrich waved his hand with dismissal. But those who were in the hideout didn’t fail to notice that the chieftain’s eyes were glittering with excitement. “Let him first prove he’s a bit of a mage. Right now... it’s just fooling around.” The severe chieftain wouldn’t confess even to himself that he wanted desperately, to tears wanted to believe in a miracle. With the help of some trashy casket to turn the course of the war back, and the margrave Siegfried will never invade the lands of Opolie, and Jendrich’s gang-mates that have fallen at dawn will remain alive, and...

  “Prove? How?” Martzin ruffled like a funny sparrow.

  “Have you learnt at least something? To light a candle without a flint?”

  “Yes.”

  “Come on then!”

  The chieftain blew abruptly, and the hideout became pitch dark. The tang of soot crawled into the nostrils. Rustling, vague movement. A d
rop of flame appears noiselessly, coming out of the darkness. It’s strange, amber, with a vertical line in the middle – like a cat’s eye. Only after two or three heartbeats do they understand that the flame is burning in the air, between Martzin’s hands brought together.

  The youth brings the drop to the candle.

  The wick kindles at once.

  “He’s a wizad, he’s a wizad! Make more wizadly!”

  “Hush, Karolinka! Bad fellas will hear – them come and take you. Hush, my daughter...”

  Now Skwozhina bore little resemblance to the loudmouthed squabbler that would tell bawdy jokes and wouldn’t give a hoot about anybody. Having drawn Karolinka closer to herself, she was stroking the girl’s head tenderly with a coarse hand, trying to protect, close, hide in her bosom from the troubles awaiting the child in the evil and hostile world.

  “Here...”

  Jendrich Dry Storm thrust his fingers into his curly inky mane, scratched his head – and suddenly grinned merrily: “Alright, hold that I believe you. Well, mage boy! Teach us to replay fate!”

  The pieces were old, part of them lacked a head or a top. Well matching the peeled and cracked casket-board. Martzin was placing them carefully, biting his lip. Giacomo Seingalt was watching the youth’s actions intently. He reached forward: “Three colours? I assume that black is for the Maintz Mark, yellow for Holne and red – our Opolie. Can we choose any side? Any camp?”

  “Of course. But you must choose only a single piece. Then for a short time you’ll become the man whose image you’ve chosen. And you’ll move backwards, into the past. There you can try to change something, to give a new course to the events. You’ll have about two months. My teacher would have transferred you for some twenty years without an effort, but I...”

  “This sounds alluring. I think I would risk playing for...”

  “Two months? That will do! The tournament! The tournament in Maintz! Damn it, I know what to do! Lubina decided not to take part in the jousting! And he should... Oh, I’ll show this son of a bitch!”

  “There’s another thing. Would the margrave Dietrich, Siegfried’s father, live at least five-six years more...”

  “I know that the burgomaster of Holne has a daughter. Were I in her place...”

  “Good heavens! How hadn’t it occurred to me before! Were my teacher a bit more resolute...”

  “Mommy, I want play!”

  “Wait, dolly. After grown men finish making fools of themselves, they’ll give you toys to play too. Damn you! Just like babies...”

  “Hush! Well, lad, show how to play.”

  “Have you already chosen a piece, mister Jendrich?”

  “Sure!”

  The chieftain reached out to the board.

  “Wait! This is not how it must be done. Imagine thoroughly what you’re going to do in the chosen man’s place. Because during the game you cease being yourself. Just remember the main thing – what you are playing for. So?”

  In the chieftain’s face there expressed the unusually hard labour of the mind. After some lingering Jendrich Dry Storm nodded with a visible effort.

  “Then clap your hands over the board. And then, when I say, touch the piece.”

  Jendrich’s arms, swelling with lumps of muscles, met in a mute clap. None of them understood where most of the pieces vanished to from the board. The chieftain’s burning eyes were fixed tightly on the image of an armoured knight with a shield and a spear in its hands. The spearhead was long ago broken, the red paint had peeled off the helm – but this didn’t matter now. Martzin took in his hands the hourglass with the massive bronze stand, shook it slightly and stared at the bulging glass. The youth’s glance became lifeless, dim – and they saw that in the lower part of the vessel there rose a thin sandstorm. One by one, faster and faster the sand grains rushed for the orifice of the vessel, to the upper part of it.

  The sand was flowing the other way around!

  Lukerda gasped and closed her mouth with her palm.

  Together with the crazy sand Time itself was turning back, returning on its circuits, casting away generously once gathered stones, giving the possibility to step twice in the same river – to improve, to change, to play again... The last grain of sand dived into the narrow orifice. Time stopped, hanging like an axe over a victim’s neck – and Martzin raised his face, stiffened, pale as a wax mask. “Hurry on, chieftain!”

  “Chieftain?!” grinned in response Jendrich Dry Storm. “Hell no! This time – a knight! Lubina Rava, the noble commander of the prince of Opolie! Hold on, Siegfried, you dog, I’m coming!”

  The strong fingers, more used to the hilt of a sword, closed on the piece. The next moment the “Triple Nornscoll” disappeared. In its place a window was flung wide open, and one could see distinctly how...

  ...Clang, a thump on the ground. Enthusiastic cries of spectators. The spear of Siegfried, heir to the crown of Maintz, has unhorsed another rival. A good stroke. It seems that of the fighters that have dared to oppose the initiator remained two: Henric Labendz and himself, Lubina Rava. The rest are already beaten by the young bully. At first, though, Lubina wasn’t going to participate in the jousting. But to reject the invitation of the margrave Dietrich would have been an insult. And then again, the commander loved tournaments. Many were unhorsed by his strong hand, but rivals wouldn’t take offence at one another. Strong was the spirit of the knightly brotherhood, not as it is now...

  “I’m getting old. I start grumbling. In our time, that is, the grass was greener, and the girls were prettier, and cows had four horns... Is your sun approaching the sunset, knight?! Come on! There's life in the old dog yet! And the boy is good, really good. Which means you must knock the stuffing out of this blockhead while you still can...”

  “The knight Henric Labendz from Boleslavez!”

  That’s it, he’s next. Lubina jumped slightly, checking the tourney armour, clenched and unclenched his fingers in the gauntlets. No, everything fitted well. A helm on the head, a spear and a shield in the hands – and he might go out to the field. What a pity that the joy had gone. He remembered sensation of holiday that had filled the tournaments of old. And here, in Maintz, everything seemed as it must be: banners, plumes, armours glittering in the sun, trumpets, heralds, ladies waving their handkerchiefs – yet the holiday was gone. Jealousy, envy... As if a cloud hung over the field, putting out smiles, penetrating souls with streams of darkness.

  The commander knew the name of the cloud hanging over the Maintz Mark and threatening to shower its rain onto the neighbouring lands.

  War was its name.

  And its heart was the heart of young Siegfried.

  Why was he so sure? The commander wondered at himself. Only yesterday the skies of the future had still shone with pure azure, and today Lubina was awake because of the sulphuric smell of trouble. In his time the margrave Dietrich von Maintz, Siegfried’s father, had been as belligerent and indomitable as his son was now. Not once and not twice had he tried to widen his borders, but at last, after he was beaten by the powerful duke of Henning, he calmed down. Became peaceful and hospitable. Only that Dietrich is old, and his heir longs for revenge. Clever enough to have learnt from his father’s bitter experience and not go west, to Henning, once again, Siegfried will move his troops east as soon as his hands are untied. Holne will fall quickly, only to whet his appetite; Opolie will stand for some more time. But without reliable allies the principality won’t withstand before powerful and rich Maintz. Making alliances requires time.

  A secret guest that had settled inside Lubina was prompting: there was no time.

  “A-a-ah!..”

  Look at him! Henric Labendz proved to be strong – withheld the blow with his shield, remained in the saddle. Now the knights are departing for the next attack... Lubina felt in his bones: the tournament in Maintz would decide everything. Young Siegfried is trying his strength. When you are twenty two, your blood is up in your veins and your head is full of grandiose plans – victory in th
e tournament can be accepted for an omen from Heaven. And the flame of war will rage across the land, until the predator breaks his fangs fighting a stronger enemy.

  So why not calm down the lad here and now?

  “A-a-ah!..”

  It’s over. Henric Labendz from Boleslavez is defeated.

  Now it’s time.

  “The knight Lubina Rava from Wrozlav!”

  His hands are accepting the habitual weight of the shield and the spear brought by the squires. His eyes are looking at the world through the visor grid. While riding to the field pitted by hoofs, while listening to the welcoming roar of the crowd, the commander thought: “It’s not enough to simply unhorse the pup. It would be nice to send him to hell. Oh, how nice it would be...”

  The thought flashed and disappeared. The weird, evil, foreign thought.

  Trumpets.

  The opposite tribunes rushed towards him in the usual way, in his ears sounded the victorious rumble of hoofs. But faster than the tribunes, in front of him there emerges a rider in glittering armour. On the azure field of his shield the griffon of Maintz claws a snake. Only a fool would fight a griffon face to face – above it, over the shield’s edge, aslant and up...

  A stroke. Crash. For a moment everything goes dark before the commander’s eyes.

  Hold on! Remain in the saddle at any cost!..

  He made it. The horse stops obediently, turning around in its place. Here he is, Siegfried von Maintz – prostrate on the ground. The commander’s favourite stroke – a spear in a head – had reached its aim one more time. The boy is defeated. Alive or dead?

  The lying knight is trying to grope for the hilt of his sword. That means he’s alive. All the same, from Lubina’s stroke he will not recover soon.

  One of the tournament marshals runs up to him. His words are making their way through the hum of the tribunes: “Congratulations to the valiant knight on his victory! According to the tournament tradition the winner has the right for a trophy. What detail of the armour would the noble knight wish to take? The spur? The gauntlet? The belt?..”

  Lubina Rava looks at Siegfried. Excellent armour. Gorgeous. A cuirass of Milanese steel – the “goose chest”! – a Burgonet helmet in the latest fashion, with a triple visor, lamellar armour surpasses leather one in flexibility. And gold all over: the image of the griffon, the decoration of the vambraces and the spaulders... At any fair such armour would cost oodles of money. While Rava’s lands don’t bring decent income, and the prince Razimir is a skinflint...