The Lion Returns f-3

by John Dalmas

  Riding through the town, Macurdy was impressed. It was attractive, orderly and clean. Most of the buildings seemed to be dormitories. It was midday, lunch-time, he supposed. There were not a lot of people on the streets. Most were female, all of them attractive and seemingly young. Most wore their hair as Varia had, back in Indiana-twin ponytails, one on each side. They wore a semi-fitted coverall tucked into low-cut boots. As he'd seen in the photos he'd found in Varia's attic, on that weird morning twenty years earlier.

  At the palace, it was obvious he was expected. A Guards officer led him to a receptionist, who called Omara, who took him to the dynast with no wait at all. Sarkia would speak in little more than a whisper, Omara warned him. For she had much to tell him, and was very weak.

  Even so, he was shocked at her appearance. The woman he'd negotiated with in Tekalos, eighteen years earlier, had been strong, beautiful, radiating unusual energy. Now she was shrunken-tiny and fragile-and nearly bald. She did not sit up to speak, not even propped. Her body aura was alarmingly weak, and her spirit aura showed tenacity more than strength.

  She listened to his story, of his dream and A'duaill's, of Vulkan's sense of danger from the Voitusotar, and Cyncaidh's story of the two strange ships. She heard him out, but scarcely reacted. Her focus was totally on the succession, and on surviving till it was worked out. Macurdy understood that. The Sisterhood had been her life and focus for more than two centuries, and now she had no energy for other issues.

  She confessed to him a day of discouragement, a sense of defeat, when her ambassador to Duinarog had forwarded Varia's unwillingness to serve. But she'd rallied. "To persist is my only choice," she said.

  Macurdy told her that Rillor had destroyed whatever chance there'd been of Varia coming south. She agreed, adding that Rillor had been flogged, demoted, and assigned to the embassy in Miskmehr.

  Astonished, Macurdy asked why she'd left him alive.

  "You are aware of the infertility problem we've inherited from the ylver," she answered. "Rillor is a proven sire, more fertile than most, and his offspring nave some superior qualities. Mostly physical," she added wryly. "But more to the point, Idri insisted on his being spared." The old dynast chuckled, a sad soft sound. "It is," she said wryly, "the first instance of honest loyalty I've ever seen in her. She is pregnant by him. In her sixty-six years she has had sexual intercourse with innumerable men, but this is her first pregnancy."

  The old eyes turned thoughtful, focusing inward, and she rested a minute before continuing. "Given the situation, I have found it necessary to reevaluate the importances of almost everything. Thus I give way on many issues. But from time to time, with Omara's help, I have forced Idri to her knees on some issue or other. To remind her that she is not the dynast." Sarkia paused thoughtfully. "Backing down is far more painful for her than for me. Twenty years ago I could not have said that. I was strong willed to a fault."

  She turned her head enough to meet Macurdy's eyes. "Varia knows that as well as anyone. When you see her next, tell her I deeply regret what happened. That I love her and wish her well, as unbelievable as she may find it."

  Then her head rolled back and her eyes closed. "I am tired now," she murmured. It was barely audible. "Go. With my good wishes."

  Except for her aura, she looked like an embalmed corpse. Macurdy left, far more impressed with her than he'd been when she was strong and beautiful.

  ***

  Amnevi's office was a door away, and he went to it. To his surprise and momentary shock, she was physically a duplicate of Idri, a clone sister. But her aura reflected a very different personality, and strong talent. He asked for a meeting with Idri, partly to read Amnevi's aura when he asked it.

  Idri, she replied, was away from the Cloister. Where, she didn't know. "She comes and goes as she pleases," Amnevi told him, "asking no one. And telling no one, except perhaps the commander of her Tigers."

  He thanked her and left the building. When he'd arrived, he'd left Vulkan on the lawn. Now he couldn't see him anywhere. ‹Here, Macurdy,› said the familiar voice. ‹In the shade of the building. Cloaked. I drew undesired attention from a platoon of Tigers marching past.›

  Macurdy frowned. "Can they harm you?"

  ‹They cannot harm me. But in their numbers they could deprive me-and you-of this highly useful body.›

  "So you cloaked yourself."

  ‹Precisely. Cloaked and displaced myself.›

  "Displaced? You mean walked?"

  ‹It is the only means of transportation I have.›

  While they talked, three Sisters left the building, looking oddly at Macurdy, who seemed to be carrying on a conversation with himself. So having no confidence in his own cloak, against persons of talent, Macurdy stepped over to Vulkan, disappearing within his. Vulkan's had the further advantage of concealing sound, and Macurdy preferred to voice his words. To simply think them felt unsatisfying and incomplete to him.

  "Tell me about that attention they gave you," he said.

  ‹It was not overt. They simply contemplated action. They regarded me as a challenge.›

  "Were they in ranks?"

  ‹At the time, yes. They did and said nothing, nor was their attention coordinated. But several of them wondered independently how many it would take to make pork of me. There was also the explicit thought of bringing up the matter to others, with the possibility of action. They were not aware of my connection to you.›

  "Hmm." Vulkan's addendum relaxed Macurdy somewhat. "How many would it take, do you suppose?"

  ‹If the situation precluded flight, and I did not cloak myself, half a dozen should suffice. Certainly with spears, but they would be highly dangerous with swords as well. By the standards of your species, Tigers are more than extremely strong and athletic. They are also highly skilled, and do not fear death. Danger is a spur to them. They accept that death is not the end; that they will reincarnate. Where they err is in believing they'll return as Tigers. Given their perspective from the other side, that is extremely unlikely.›

  "Other side?"

  ‹The off-stage side.›

  "Huh! What did they think when you disappeared?"

  ‹They were reminded of my reputation as a wizard.›

  Macurdy frowned thoughtfully. "I wonder how good they are at hand-to-hand combat."

  ‹I do not know. I watched them drill just once, when the Cloister was at Ferny Cove. They drilled with practice swords, appearing to be very quick and highly skilled.›

  Macurdy considered what he'd planned for the evening, and how it would affect Vulkan. The boar had eaten a whole lamb the night before in Asrik. "Do you want to wait around here?" he asked. "Or slip out through the gate? Or what?"

  Vulkan heaved himself to his feet. ‹I will accompany you,› he said. ‹Cloaked. This environment is not without hazards for you, too, particularly considering what you are contemplating.›

  ***

  Macurdy went to his sons' company orderly room. Their company, he learned, was outside the wall, training. The desk sergeant notified the company commander, who sent an orderly to take Macurdy to watch them. Afterward, the captain added, the marshal was welcome to eat supper with his sons' squad, or with himself.

  After arranging with his sons to spend part of the evening with them, Macurdy ate supper with the captain, questioning him about Guards training, and what he knew of Tiger training.

  After eating, he was taken to his sons' barracks. Together they went outside, and began a leisurely walk along the grassy margin of the street. Grinning, they told him they both had breeding duty that evening at nine.

  "You like that, do you?" he asked.

  "Oh yes," said Ohns. "It's our favorite."

  "What do the women think of breeding duty?"

  "They like it too, except for Tiger breeding. Tigers are rough, they say, and show no respect. Often they hurt them."

  "Do you breed the same ones all the time?"

  "It varies," said Dohns. "So far we've been assigne
d to breed members of three clones. I'll bet anything that if you asked, they'd schedule you in, too."

  Nonplused by the suggestion, Macurdy didn't respond. Instead he broached his real interest. "Are Guardsmen trained in hand-to-hand combat? Without weapons?"

  "We train in both wrestling and blows," Ohns said.

  "Are you good?"

  "Very good." Ohns grinned again. "Would you like to test me? We've both wondered how good you are."

  Macurdy accepted the challenge, and they stepped onto a lawn, where he took off his belt pack. Ohns fronted off with him, and began to feel him out. Macurdy was more direct. He feinted, drew a countering move, and slammed the young man to the ground with a simple hip throw. Afterward he had them demonstrate Guards wrestling techniques on each other, stopping them now and then with questions. He soon had a sense of the overall style.

  "What about the techniques for blows?" he asked. "Could you demonstrate those? Not on each other. Show me the drills you do."

  After a few minutes, and more questions, he knew as much as he felt he needed. "What about Tiger training?" he asked. "Does theirs go beyond yours?"

  "They don't train much in hand to hand," Dohns answered. "Guardsmen can be assigned to embassies and craftworks, and to protect property and personnel, we have to be able to control people without killing them. Tigers fight only to kill, and train endlessly with weapons. Though they do wrestle each other for fun and exercise; we've seen them."

  Afterward they demonstrated their wrestling techniques on each other. And again on their father, who played the role of an untrained antagonist.

  When he'd left, the youths walked together to the breeding dorm, in the pleasant Eight-Month evening. "Blessed Sarulin!" said Dohns. "Did you feel his strength? His hands are so strong, I thought he was going to crush my arm with his fingers. I must be black and blue where he gripped me! I wonder if he has any idea how strong he is."

  Ohns nodded thoughtfully. "And quick. I'd never have believed it."

  ***

  Macurdy ate a light breakfast the next morning in the Guards command dining room. There he sat beside General Grimval, answering questions about the Ozian system of training. Afterward he returned to what was commonly referred to as the Dynast's Palace, though its official name was Executive Hall. There he sat briefly in the shelter of Vulkan's cloak, and talked with the boar about his plan. It was not explicit; he'd have to play things by ear. But he had a definite idea of what he hoped to accomplish.

  It seemed reckless to Vulkan, but he didn't say so. Macurdy would have many decisions to make, and no doubt some would have to be bold in the extreme. To argue now could weaken his confidence and resolve. And at any rate Macurdy had done what he could to prepare.

  Half an hour after lunch, they walked together to Tiger headquarters. At the stoop he was stopped by a scowling sentry, who demanded to know his business.

  "My business is with your commanding officer," Macurdy answered, and stepped onto the stoop as if to walk past the man.

  The Tiger flushed at the insolence, and stepped between Macurdy and the open door. There was not twelve inches between the two men. "He is away from the Cloister," the sentry said.

  Macurdy's tone was casual but absolute. "Someone's in charge here," he said. "I'll speak with him."

  "Private!" called a voice.

  Inside, the sergeant major had overheard them, and from his desk could see a situation developing. During Quaie's War, he'd been in the Tiger platoon guarding Omara's healing coven, and recognized Macurdy. The sentry too should have known him. Word of his arrival had spread throughout the Cloister. But the sentry was young.

  "Yes, Sergeant Major!" the sentry called back. It was difficult talking to someone behind him while this foreign pile of shit was pushing his face at him.

  "Let him in. I'll speak with him."

  Reluctantly the sentry stood aside, and Macurdy entered. "Thank you, Sergeant Major," he said. "I appreciate your help; I don't know your regulations." He gestured toward the stoop and its sentry. "If I bent them, my apologies."

  The sergeant major ignored both thanks and apology. "In Colonel Bolzar's absence," he said, "Subcolonel Sojass is in charge. Before I interrupt him, it is necessary that I know why you want to speak with him."

  Macurdy nodded. "Yuulith is in danger of invasion from across the Ocean Sea. I've been traveling through the Rude Lands, looking at their armed forces, and their effectiveness. The Tigers have a reputation which I presume is well deserved. But I need to see for myself."

  The sergeant majors jaw set. "Be seated," he said. "I will inform him." He got to his feet and disappeared into an adjacent room. Macurdy could hear voices through the closed door, but couldn't make out the words. A well-knit, pre-adolescent boy sat near a corner of the room, watching and listening. A Tiger cadet pulling orderly duty, Macurdy supposed, and wondered what the boy made of an outsider coming here. After a long minute, the sergeant major reappeared, again closing the door behind him.

  "Subcolonel Sojass is busy," he said. "I can have you taken to a company drill field."

  He stood waiting for Macurdy's response.

  "Thank you, Sergeant Major. I'd appreciate that."

  The sergeant major sat down, and jotted a note. "Thessmak!" he said as he wrote. The boy got sharply to his feet and stepped to the desk. The sergeant major finished writing and handed him the note. "Take Marshal Macurdy to Captain Skortov's company. Give the note to the captain."

  "Yes, Sergeant Major!" the boy snapped, then turned to Macurdy, who got to his feet. They left at a brisk walk. Macurdy got the impression the boy would have preferred running.

  Twenty minutes later they were outside the wall, at a drill field divided into squares of perhaps forty yards on a side. Four platoons were there, drilling with short spears in a thin haze of dust. Their swift forceful movements seemed choreographed. An officer paced by each platoon, circling it, watching. Barking brief orders at intervals of a few seconds, the platoon responding without pause.

  Macurdy was impressed. Their drill was faster and sharper than the spear drill of Ozian Heroes, if less exuberant. Whether they'd be more formidable in battle, he didn't know. Stronger, certainly, and no doubt more tightly disciplined.

  It occurred to him that he hadn't fought for years. He hoped he wasn't biting off more than he could chew.

  The cadet took Macurdy to the company commander, a chiseled-faced captain who watched the drill from a flat-topped mound, a grassy command platform. After speaking to the captain, the boy handed him the note. Frowning, the captain read it, then green eyes unreadable, looked at Macurdy. His aura, however, showed no hostility. "I am Captain Skortov," he said. "What do you want to see?"

  "I'm seeing some of it now. I'd also like to see how strong these Tigers are. Feel their strength in personal combat."

  Something flashed behind Skortov's eyes, and the Tiger smiled. Without a second's hesitation he shouted an order, a booming, effortless bellow. The whirl of activity stopped at once, each man turning toward Skortov, spear butt by his right foot in what Macurdy would have called "order arms."

  "We have a visitor," Skortov bellowed, "come to watch you train. He is the Lion of Farside. He led the army that defeated the ylver in the Battle of Ternass, and destroyed the evil and treacherous Quaie in single combat." He turned to Macurdy, but spoke so the company would hear. "What do you think of their drill?" he asked.

  Macurdy was caught unprepared by Skortov's praise, and hoped he wouldn't blow it. Looking at the Tigers, he matched the captain's bellow. "I am impressed. They are very good, as I expected."

  Skortov spoke to his Tigers again. "He asked to see how strong you are. He wants to feel your strength in personal combat. Corporal Corgan! Come up here and show him!"

  The Tiger who strode toward the mound was taller and huskier than most of them. "Do not use magic," Skortov murmured to Macurdy. "It would offend the men, and hurt your reputation."

  Macurdy heard, but did not respond. No
magic. What would these men make of the jujitsu Fritzi had sent him off to learn? Technique or magic? If he didn't use the skills he knew, this might backfire on him. He watched Corgan climb the low mound, the Tiger's aura reflecting anticipation and utter confidence. And a smoldering hostility that surprised Macurdy. Meanwhile the interest of the company was so strong, Macurdy's aura vibrated to it, a feeling new to him. Corgan stopped not four feet from him, glowering in his face as if to intimidate.

  "You will wrestle," Skortov instructed them. "There will be no blows struck, no choking, no gouging of eyes, no attempt to break or dislocate bones. The purpose of this is for each of you to discover the strength of the other." He stared meaningfully at Corgan. "Is that understood, Corporal?"

  "Understood," Corgan growled.

  Skortov turned to Macurdy. "Agreed?" he asked.

  "Agreed."

  Belatedly, Macurdy wished he knew if there was a standard opening to bouts like these. Skortov waved them back till they stood ten feet apart. Macurdy didn't focus on Corgan's eyes or feet. He had the knack of taking in the entire opponent. Then Skortov's callused hands clapped loudly, and the two men closed.

  Corgan was direct. He grabbed at Macurdy, who grasped the Tiger's sleeve and shirt front, and threw him with a basic leg throw. He heard Corgan's loud grunt and stepped back. That'll give him something to think about, he thought.

  Corgan was on his feet quickly, his hostility transformed to hatred. However, though his intention was no less, his confidence was bruised. He closed again. This time Macurdy used none of the judo throws he'd learned. For a moment they grappled, feet wide and braced-and Macurdy discovered he was the stronger. He raised Corgan off his feet, and as he did, the Tiger drove a fist into his ribs. Macurdy slammed him down, landing on top, and for a wild minute they struggled on the ground. Then Skortov's voice shouted "Up!" and Macurdy felt Corgan's grasp relax. He relaxed his own, and both of them got to their feet. Skortov waved them apart again, then stared meaningfully at Corgan.