Here and Now tsops-1

by Henry Lion Oldie

  “Yes, it was me.”

  “Thank you, young man. Lukerda wouldn’t have survived this.”

  “I’ve guessed,” the youth’s cheeks were ashen-grey, and the vein in the corner of his eye was throbbing as a fish thrown at the shore. It was seen he was hardly standing on his feet, but a strange force, astonishing even Martzin Oblaz himself, was emerging from the depths of his soul, preventing him from falling into a swoon. “Well, it’s my turn. My teacher has hesitated too long. Excuse me, meister Byarn, for disturbing your ashes...”

  The sand flew up faster than usual.

  The disciple, in trepidation, reached for the massive rook.

  ...Byarn the Pensive put aside the pen and sanded what he had written. The ink is quite fresh. Let it dry out. The choice is always left behind us. Always... The old mage was wondering at himself. Having known an hour ago that any direct intervention would only complicate the situation – Byarn even knew why, – he changed his mind in a sudden. Decisively and irrevocably. There’s need to act. Tomorrow Holne will fall. Most likely, there’ll be no siege. The burgomaster Claas van Dayk, a prudent man, will bring to the margrave the keys of the free city – dooming the citizens to economical ruin, but saving them from slaughter. Last evening the burgomaster had visited the mage. He asked: if the stubborn home guard lead by Richard Broose, the syndic of the butcher guild, takes the risk of defending the walls, could the most honourable meister Byarn help with defense. Eem... rain of fire, for instance. Or, that is, lightnings with five jags each. Exclusively on the enemies’ heads.

  Then, eem, the burgomaster would be ready to support the idea of defense.

  You are a clever man, herre Claas, said Byarn the Pensive. You will understand. Yes, I think I would be able to render assistance. But let me explain why I will not do so. Tell me, if you take a loan from some almost unlawful resources, in addition doubting your future paying capabilities – you do understand that you still have to return it nevertheless, don’t you? Only not the way you’ve intended to.

  Eem, I do, nodded the burgomaster. He was quite not so timid and stupid as he wanted to seem.

  Herre Claas, said the mage. Even if an aged man like me has enough power for the five-jagged lightnings – you would agree I’ll have to kill. While every member of the Aaltricht lodge knows: a true mage refrains from killing. Because he strikes a deal with fate: to aspire for knowledge while not aspiring for life. Everyone delineates the borders of the allotted territories himself. But you can kill, asked the burgomaster. Yes, herre Claas, answered the old man. I can. Only that then I take a loan from fate, giving it the right for the next move. It has the right to kill as many as I do. The choice is its. It may do this or not, today or tomorrow, hitting or missing, good or bad, laughing or crying... But it will be its move.

  Do you want to play with fate for a thousand lives, herre Claas?

  For two, three thousands?

  I’ll surrender the city, said the burgomaster, taking his hat from a clothes-peg. I won’t force you to take a loan from fate. Not even because you’re my friend, meister Byarn.

  He knew how to make decisions, Claas van Dayk.

  Tomorrow Holne will fall. Within five days Siegfried von Maintz will move to Opolie. Most likely Opolie will also fall soon: under the existing circumstances the prince Razimir won’t be able to stop the Maintz army. After that there’ll be the turn of Moravian principalities. Mercenaries will pour into the army of the lucky commander. A bloody deluge will begin. And one day powerful Henning will find itself facing destruction, when it stops containing the constant challenge of the Maintz Mark.

  Maybe fate is making its move stealthily?

  Reshaping and sewing together anew?!

  The craving for action, not characteristic for Byarn before, overwhelmed his soul suddenly. As if a secret guest had settled there, moving furniture and sweeping dust out of the corners. The mage felt himself young. Naïve – naïvety is strong, it allows not pondering of the consequences. After it’s all over he should write “The Praise for Naïvety.”

  But this is afterwards.

  Byarn went out into the night. The moon was chewing on the edges of dark clouds, spitting from time to time yellow saliva on the cobbles of a pavement. The mage stood into the lunar spittle; looked at the shadow prostrate at his feet.

  “Get up!” ordered he, feeling how the power was filling him entirely.

  The shadow fidgeted, trying not to get hurt over the cobble edges. Darted to the wall of a house, gathered into a tight lump.

  Hissed angrily.

  “Haven’t I told you?” asked Byarn quietly, without any threat.

  The shadow got down on all fours. The hump on its back split with a crackle, showing coriaceous wings. An Ulvvind, the long distance messenger that only the few were permitted to summon.

  “Fly to Wrozlav. Carry this,” the mage lifted the chest with the “Triple Nornscoll”, the fruit of long years’ labour. “Give it to the prince Razimir...”

  The old man stopped. The secret guest had settled down in his soul wholly, feeling himself at home.

  I’m young. I’m resolute.

  I know what to do. Here and now.

  “No,” said Byarn the Pensive. “You’ll carry me to Opolie. I’ll tell everything to the prince myself.”

  At the dawn of the next day Razimir of Opolie learned the secret of the “Triple Nornscoll”. Eight men, eight empowered men, eight courtiers, commanders and politicians gathered at the board. Eight pieces were moving, weaving invisible web, ordering the past to change for the better.

  A week later, when the troops of the margrave Siegfried put to rout the Opolie frontier guard, moving relentlessly to the capital, the prince Razimir ordered to execute all the eight of them. Because one had his incurably ill grandson recovered, the other suddenly received inheritance, the third gained the love of a proud beauty...

  But the first who was executed at Wrozlav square was Byarn the Pensive, the old mage from Holne.

  He didn’t resist.

  “Your teacher, Martzin, was a wise man. He foresaw the failure beforehand.”

  “I understand now...”

  It was pitiful to look at Martzin. He was shrivelled all over, looked haggard, more than ever resembling a hopeless sparrow.

  “Hell! Is there no way?!” Jendrich stroke his fist on the floor in a fit of temper. “Damn it, I would sell my soul...”

  “We should seek a turning point. A point of influence, as my teacher would say. Nothing is impossible. Everything is liable to changes, but we... We either find the wrong points or make mistakes. Were there more of us, we could try a lot of variants, and eventually... For the game works! You’ve seen it yourselves!”

  Martzin wasn’t noticing he was kneeling, looking in everyone’s eyes hopefully.

  “Mommy, I want play! In the winda is evil fella. I want to bump on his head!”

  “What, are you satisfied? Give the little one to play.”

  “Well, why not, as a matter of fact?”

  “I know, I know how playing! Must clap hands! Mommy, I want!”

  “We aren’t losing anything. Even if she doesn’t manage...”

  “All right. Come here, little girl. Stand here, near the board. Do you know how to... eem... bump an evil fellow on his head?”

  “Yea. Just like that!”

  A sonorous clap of small palms. On the board there remain only two pieces. Two lonely pawns. A red one and a black one. Martzin fixes his eyes on the hourglass, the sand once again starts running up – and suddenly the pale face of the youth flushes with amazement. The sand in the lower part of the vessel doesn’t end! The upper part is already overfull, but the little tornado continues to drive into the orifice numerous grains: hours, days, years...

  “It cannot be...”

  Martzin hasn’t time to finish. The girl hastily snatches the black pawn and presses it to her chest.

  The window is flung wide open...

  “Oh, knight! Knight!”<
br />
  Elsa Fenriver, a five year old girl, clapped her hands. She was charming, in a new frilled dress, flowers in her golden locks. A pony standing in front of the little girl was scared of her quick movement. It snorted, moved back.

  Started prancing in one place.

  “Wait! Ponee, wait!”

  Sitting in his saddle, three year old Siegfried was smiling with the mindless smile of an idol, not understanding what was going on. Today he was dressed up in child armour with a gilded breastplate. Given a helmet with a plume to put on. To his belt was hung a real sword – long-long, up to the sky. Well, maybe not to the sky, but still a long one. Like his Dad’s. Siegfried was happy. And his Dad – the strongest! the cleverest! – went away to the rose bushes to admire his heir while not hindering his son from enjoying his triumph.

  Siegfried was happy even while flying off the saddle.

  “Ponee!”

  Shying away from Elsa, the pony reared. Its hoof stroke near the boy’s head. The toy helmet rolled aside, the temple of prone Siegfried was absorbing an accidental shade – the sun had hidden behind a fluffy cloud resembling a dog.

  The blond hair of the heir was sandy.

  “Stand!” A shout – masculine, imperious. A strong hand caught the bridle, in a jerk threw the pony away, to the side alley of the garden. Dietrich, the margrave of Maintz, bent over his son: “Are you hurt? Are you all right?!”

  Siegfried turned on his back.

  Started laughing.

  Then thought better, looking at his father’s beaming face, and started crying.

  “We’ve seen, Karolinka. You’ve tried. You’ve tried hard, it’s not your fault you didn’t manage. You have played well.”

  “Well! I played well! Zere was no evil fella. Was knight! Vely good! And a little horse...”

  “That’s how it is,” Giacomo knitted his dry lips. “Just playing. Well, what can you demand from a child?..”

  “I want horse! I want knight!..”

  “Twenty years!” whispered Martzin as if delirious, looking with horror at the little girl who was ready to cry. “Be she just a bit older... Good heaven, almost twenty years!”

  “What are you babbling on, mage boy?”

  “Twenty years! She has transferred for twenty years into the past! Herself! She did it herself!” the youth’s eyes were glittering feverishly. “She has a gift! Gracious God, such power...”

  “Well, and what’s the use of this power? For Siegfried all this is like water off a duck's back...”

  “Maybe the prince Razimir will manage? Or someone else? We should keep trying! We should do something!” but in Martzin’s words there was nothing of the former confidence. “Skwozhina, maybe you’ll try?”

  On the board there remained only one red pawn.

  The woman squinted contemptuously at the game. “Me? What I am – worst of all?!”

  “Hush!” hissed Jendrich desperately in a sudden, and everyone became silent at once.

  Above there were heard distinct, self-confident footsteps. The boards creaked.

  Giacomo, without waiting for the chieftain’s instructions, pulled the rag bung out of the hole.

  “...boozing, that is?..”

  The newcomer’s voice – quiet, ingratiating, promising – boded nothing well for the Maintz men resting in the tavern.

  “Sir, no, sir baron! I have to report, sir: we were chasing the enemy squad through the night, sir. Now we’re waiting for the main forces of His Grace, sir. My people needed rest...”

  “In five minutes here will be His Grace Siegfried von Maintz in person! Search the tavern anew! From top to bottom! I’ll have your hides! If there’s one more national avenger again...”

  “Sir, yes, sir!” A busting tramping.

  “Sit here with the folks, Karolinka. Mommy will come for you.” Having got up, the serving woman stepped resolutely to the door.

  “Have you gone mad, woman?! Want to give us up?!”

  But nobody had time to stop Skwozhina. The woman pressed against the door with her entire body, something fell down outside. The door leaf gave way...

  “Hold her!”

  Too late. Skwozhina was already outside, having shut the secret door and now blocking it with rubbish anew. Giacomo clang his ear to the weak partition. Everyone kept silent. Lukerda was praying soundlessly, moving her lips in a childish manner...

  ...Voices.

  The people waited, holding their breath. Jendrich, baring his teeth like a wolf, took his knife so it would be handy to throw.

  “There’s somebody here! Taverner, give a torch!”

  “Carefully, good gentlemen, don’t make a fire! Or we’ll burn down!..”

  “A broad! By Saint Sebastian’s torturing, a broad! Hey you, come here!”

  “Well this is my servant, sir knight! A fool, fool as she is... Hid in the cellar out of fear. Come out, come out, you muck, good gentlemen won’t hurt you. And decant beer, the dark “Chabrick” from the last barrel! Look at her, she took it into her head shirking work!..”

  “Give me light, Ronmark. Nobody else there?”

  “Empty...”

  “Who would be here? Except for rats...”

  “All right. Hey woman, climb up. And you too, taverner...”

  Footsteps. Receding. From afar, muted – the clang of a lock.

  “Blessed Virgin, thank you...”

  “Mommy! Want to Mommy!..”

  “Come here, Karolinka. Don’t cry. Here, take a toy.”

  “Why, this woman has saved us. Were it not for her, they would start rummaging, searching...”

  “Siegfried! Have you heard – the margrave himself is here! Were that we could know what happens there now...”

  The people were looking at the board as if hoping that the window will be flung wide open any moment.

  But the game remained soundless.

  Tied to the saddle, a mutilated corpse was dragged over the ground after the rider.

  Skwozhina was looking silently how the body of her elder brother Stanek was jumping over the potholes. Soil stuck to his beard, his right shoulder was slashed, his eyes, surprisingly clear on the bloodstained face, were looking mindlessly into the sky. This was the man she hated more than anyone else. She would pray at night for violent death to come for Stanek who had driven his own sister out of home.

  There, God had heard.

  “Congratulations on your dowry, wench!” whispered inside somebody’s voice resembling very much the bass of the taverner Jas. “That’s what you’ve been waiting for... These folk will ride away, what the hell do they need us for, and for you, odd-even, there’ll be the house, if they haven’t burnt it down, and the field near Zamlynska Gurka, and the cattle, and some clothes! Lubka, she lived with Stanek unmarried, which means she’s not his wife... Throw her a dry bone and let her be happy, the bitch!”

  The voice was right.

  “What carrion are you dragging along, Gernot?” one of the margrave’s bodyguards stepped forward.

  “Rushed on me with an axe, this scoundrel!” cried out the rider merrily, stopping. “Derek had laid his wench on the coffer, so he grabbed an axe, this scumbag...”

  “A knight!” the bodyguard burst into laughter, his teeth shining. “Dragon fighter!” And he kicked the dead body with his foot.

  Skwozhina was looking indifferently how they were scoffing at the deceased. At night she would dream: I’ll spit in his eyes! I’ll dance on his grave! Here, she has a chance, thanks to good God...

  She has a chance.

  She went to the tethering post and took a pitchfork forgotten there. Held it in her arms, hefting.

  And, stepping forward heavily, stabbed the rider in his side with all her strength.

  “B-bitch!”

  The rider, stunned with the sudden impudence of the woman, nevertheless contrived to turn his horse and to beat off with his long broadsword. The heavy blade struck at the pole of the pitchfork, cutting it down and aside; the bodyguard groaned when t
he sharp jags ploughed up his leg. “You beast! You!..”

  “...stop it.”

  The margrave Siegfried, having walked out of the tavern, was looking attentively at the ugliness that was going on. The glance of the Maintz lord was affable and kind. Especially warm it would become when touching Skwozhina. Loving, one might say. The woman felt how her body under the caress of Siegfried’s still eyes turned into a March snowdrift – loose, spongy. A black crust under which there’s rot and water. But she didn’t lose hold of the pitchfork. Thus she was standing over the body of her hated brother – silent, holding the ludicrous pitchfork at the ready.

  The wounded bodyguard, afraid to groan, was limping aside.

  A stream of blood was staining his tracks.

  “When a dog bites, its master should be punished,” said the margrave in a didactic tone. It seemed that except for him and Skwozhina there were no people remaining on the Earth. “You’ve mistaken, avenger. Here’s the pitchfork. Here I am, the master. Punish!”

  “Stop it! Stop it, you foolish broad! My lord, she’s crazy! She’s...”

  Not listening to the taverner’s screams, biting her lip and becoming alike the bull Hles when it would see something red, Skwozhina stroke. The clear eyes of her dead brother Stanek, the scoundrel of scoundrels, were looking at her back. The hot eyes of the margrave Siegfried, a man whose soldiers had done Skwozhina the long desired favour, were looking in her face. She was tearing away between these two glances. God bless you, kind lord! Stanek, wish you were dead! Well, dead you are ... what am I doing? Why am I doing this?!

  ...I’m doing.

  She had time to lift the pitchfork for the third time, when the blade of a dolchmesser – a flat dagger with one-sided, knife-like sharpening – flashed under her chin.

  “An assaulter cannot be a man or a woman,” said Siegfried von Maintz in a didactic tone, cleaning his blade over the skirt of the murdered woman. On the rough linen, dyed with onion peels and celandine, blood stains looked ordinary. “An assaulter cannot be your equal or not. He can be only an enemy – or dead. This is the main thing. Everything else is hypocrisy. Get ready, in an hour we set out for Osobloga.”