by John Dalmas
The receptionist returned. The ambassadress, she said, was at breakfast; she'd be out shortly. Actually it was only two or three minutes. Physically she looked as young as her receptionist. Her aura suggested a few decades older. "What do you want to see Sergeant Rillor about?" she asked.
"In Duinarog last Six-Month, he tried to poison Varia and me, and Varia's husband, the emperor's deputy. I want to congratulate him on his failure. Success would have scuttled diplomatic relations with the empire, and threatened your Outland operations. Then even Idri couldn't have saved him."
A frown darkened the pretty face. "What possible good," she asked, "would it do either of you, or the Sisterhood, to tell him that? It could provoke a fight."
Macurdy's smile was relaxed and easy. "I don't actually know what good. Maybe I just want to see his expression. But I don't have a fight in mind. If you want, I'll let you hold my saber." He almost offered her his knife, too, then thought better of it. It was his life insurance.
"Keep your saber," she said drily. "Sergeant Rillor has a reputation for volatility." She turned to the receptionist. "Find the sergeant. Have him come here and talk with Marshal Macurdy. And give them a few minutes of privacy." She watched the younger Sister leave the room, then turned to Macurdy again. "The privacy will save the sergeant some face; otherwise he might well do something foolish. He still hasn't recovered from the humiliation of his demotion and flogging."
With that she left. Macurdy was impressed with her.
It took Rillor several minutes to show up. His face was flushed, his expression surly. His aura reflected hatred and fear. The sonofabitch blames us for his troubles, Macurdy realized. "Hello, Rillor," he said mildly. "Your aura doesn't look too good, but the rest of you looks recovered. I wonder if you know how lucky you are. If Varia had died, or Cyncaidh, even Idri couldn't have saved you."
Rillor stood stony-faced, his mouth clamped shut.
"That's all right," Macurdy added. "No need to talk. I can understand that. But there's something else you should know. Vulkan tracked you. Tracked your horse to the livery stable, then tracked you to the boat dock. And said nothing about it when he got back. Otherwise you'd have been caught at Riverton for sure, and been tried for murder. Of a kitchen girl who drank the wine, and the policeman that lit the lamp.
"And if I'd died, Vulkan would have shoved one of those big tusks up your sorry ass and turned you inside out."
Macurdy didn't suppose that Vulkan would have done any such thing, but it sounded good. Meanwhile his face had lost none of its mildness. "You still don't admit you were lucky. I can read it in your aura. But think about it. And think about how easily Idri sent you into a situation where, if you'd been caught, they'd have hung you. I suppose she's a good screw, but she's not worth it."
He paused. "Anything you want to say?"
Rillor's expression didn't change.
"Well then, better luck with the rest of your life."
Macurdy turned and left. The man hadn't learned a damn thing, he told himself. He still thought he was a victim.
***
From Miskmehr, Macurdy and Vulkan crossed the Great Muddy River into Oz, where they spent two weeks including travel time. Macurdy talked with the chief and his council, and watched the Heroes demonstrate their fighting and riding skills. God but they're good! he told himself. Better than the Kormehri! He wished there were more of them.
The Heroes were at least as delighted with Vulkan as with Macurdy. And Vulkan, of course, added to Macurdy's already considerable legend there.
They also went to Wolf Springs, Macurdy riding a warhorse borrowed from the Heroes, to give Vulkan a vacation. There they spent two evenings with Arbel and Kerin. On the Six-Day in between, they watched the local militia train on horseback. The chief had heeded his earlier urging, and the militias were preparing to fight as both cavalry and mounted infantry. He galloped with them on a wild, headlong race through forest, riding almost as recklessly as Heroes. Their fighting skills wouldn't match the Heroes', but they were good, and had a lot of the same attitude.
Back at Oztown, the chief told Macurdy to keep the warhorse, then asked what the empires would pay for troops. So far from the war, and having little commerce with the east, he wasn't interested in simply a share in hypothetical spoils. He wanted a guaranteed minimum. Acting as agent for the West Ylvin government, Macurdy retained three companies of Heroes-the active company and two of reservists-along with a cohort of Ozian militia. He stressed that winters in the empire were much colder than in Oz. They'd need heavy woolens and sheepskin coats.
The Heroes were to leave for the Teklan military reservation in ten days. The militia would follow as soon as they could muster with suitable gear, supplies, and packhorses. They'd be assembled from ten different districts, sixty men from each. Their commanders would be appointed by the chief, from Heroes who'd completed their service. They'd get to know each other on the road. That had worked passably during Quaie's War; it ought to for this one.
Free passage had already been arranged through Miskmehr and Tekalos. Kings Norkoth and Wollerda expected the Ozians. They were to arrange for supplies.
The Ozians were to behave themselves in transit. With Ozmen one could only hope, but Macurdy left a firm policy with them: thieves, rapists and murderers were to be summarily executed.
***
Riding eastward beside Vulkan, Macurdy considered the sort of army he was assembling: a lot of small forces that would operate as individual companies, or pairs of companies. Operate independently. Where coordination was needed, they'd have to work it out for themselves, through the great ravens. But guerrillas had operated effectively in similar circumstances during World War II. Often not smoothly, but effectively.
Provisions were a more worrisome uncertainty. Behind voitik lines they'd depend on captured supplies. He had no idea how that would go. They'd have to wait and see.
He hated to think what might happen if he'd misjudged voitik sorcery. If the monsters had human-level intelligence, this could turn into a catastrophe.
Or if Kurqosz had major sorceries of sorts he hadn't shown before. Now that was a worrisome thought.
***
Jeremid was at Wollerda's palace when Macurdy arrived. The three of them reviewed together the Teklan forces to be sent. The Royal Cavalry Cohort had been reequipped as light, instead of heavy, cavalry. The chief remaining question was how to insert them behind voitik lines.
Macurdy rode north into the Kullvordi Hills to watch the Royal Cavalry train with the Kullvordi 2nd. Companies took turns being escorts and raiders and road patrols, chasing and fleeing pell-mell down roads and through forest, replete with ambushes. They looked damned good, in make-believe.
The next day, through Blue Wing, Macurdy described the training to every kingdom he'd stopped at.
When saying good-bye, Jeremid told him "don't pass through Asrik without stopping to see the king." He refused to elaborate. Simply grinned.
***
En route from Teklapori to the Cloister, Macurdy would have stopped at Asrik's royal residence anyway. To his surprise, Wofnemst Birgar received him with something like enthusiasm. Finn Greatsword had invited the wofnemst into the Mountain, and there laid out for him the dangers of the voitik invasion. He'd urged him to contribute troops, and after taking it up with the People's Council, Birgar had agreed. General Jeremid, during his visit, had suggested he send two companies of scouts: mountain men, fur hunters who could travel quietly and quickly, and had an instinct for finding their way. They would, Jeremid had said, be good for reconnaissance and as guides.
Acting in character, Birgar agreed to send one company instead of two. He already had a great raven staying in the hayloft of the royal stable. The dwarf king had arranged it.
Macurdy left wondering what leverage Greatsword had applied to the Asriki. Or had he simply convinced them of the danger? He asked Blue Wing what he thought.
The bird focused his attention, scanning. "I find no defi
nite answer in the hive mind," he replied. "Until these last few weeks, we had rather little political information. However, the Silver Mountain dwarves are rich and powerful neighbors to the Asriki. And a few hundred years ago, according to a tomttu storyteller, Indrossa coveted the Granite Range for silver deposits believed to exist there.
"We generally treat information from tomttur as gossip. But you are well aware, I know, of their invisiility spell, which is adequate for most situations. Along with their native curiosity, it results in eavesdropping from time to time.
"So one might speculate that the dwarves, preferring a stable and acquiescent Asrik as a neighbor, discouraged an Indrossan takeover. And if all that gossip and speculation is correct, Finn Greatsword may have chosen this time to call in an old favor."
Macurdy was impressed with Blue Wing's reasoning. He wouldn't be surprised if it was a lot like the truth.
***
Weeks earlier, via the ravens, Macurdy had messaged Amnevi that he wanted to train and lead the Tigers as raiders behind voitik lines. Amnevi had messaged him back that Sarkia had approved. He'd assumed that Idri would block the move, but hadn't heard anything back on it.
When he arrived at the Cloister, he learned he'd been right. "When Idri was informed," Amnevi told him, "she said if Sarkia forced the issue, she'd take over the Administration Building with them."
"Why didn't you let me know sooner?"
Amnevi smiled slightly. "Because Sarkia hasn't given up on it. She has a plan to bypass Idri, and take her power from her. We've had to keep it secret, of course. If Idri found out, she'd block it, and follow through on her threat. She'll try to anyway, but she's less likely to succeed then." Amnevi gestured toward the door of Sarkia's sickroom. "I'm to explain it to you in the dynast's presence, so she can elaborate, or answer questions. I must ask, though, that you do not stress her. She is very weak, and on Five-Day she'll need all the strength she can muster."
Macurdy frowned. Five-Day, he thought, must be the day when Sarkia would make her move.
The dynast seemed asleep when they went in. Her body aura was even weaker than when he'd seen her in the spring, but her spirit aura was steady, and… serene was the word that came to him, a word and concept he seldom thought of.
Omara sat beside her. "How is she?" Macurdy murmured.
"She is persisting," Omara replied. "And awake, incidentally. With her it is not always easy to tell." She looked at Amnevi. "You've prepared him, I believe."
Amnevi nodded, then described the plan to Macurdy. Sarkia never stirred, never even opened her eyes while her deputy spoke. Macurdy didn't notice. His attention was on Amnevi's words: In a public ceremony on Five-Day, he'd be named the Cloister's new military commandant, over both the Guards and Tigers. "Are you willing?" Amnevi asked.
"Yes," he said, nodding slowly. He hadn't foreseen the proposal, but it didn't surprise him. The dynast had taken a lot for granted, he told himself, but she'd had little choice. And it was simple. It could even work; it felt right. "On Five-Day," he said. "Good. That gives me two days to take care of other business."
He left the room with a sense of empowerment he would never have expected. On Five-Day he'd be ready. Then-who knew?
***
After supper he visited his sons. Before leaving them, he hugged them. It hadn't occurred to them that a father might hug his sons. Then he went to the Guards' stable and curried Vulkan. "Tomorrow," Macurdy said, "we'll visit the King in Silver Mountain."
‹No complications have arisen then?›
"Actually something has, something good. I'll tell you tomorrow on the road. I'd like to ride you again, if that's all right."
‹Of course.›
After hanging up the curry comb and brush, Macurdy walked to the Administration Building, where he was lodged in a guest room.
He was preoccupied, but it wasn't Five-Day or the dwarf king he had on his mind. Ever since he'd left Indiana, little more than six months earlier, a thought had lodged in the back of his mind, only occasionally looked at: that something might have happened, and Varia would come back to him. Now he told himself he'd been dreaming. It wasn't going to happen, and it seemed to him he needed a wife. Wanted one anyway, or would when this war was over. And when he thought about it, he thought of Omara.
But somehow he felt uncomfortable with the idea, as if he'd be taking advantage of her. Partly because it was himself he was thinking of, not Omara. But mainly because what he felt for her was not what he'd felt for Varia, or Melody, or Mary. What he did feel was respect and admiration-which was good as far as it went, but less than the complete package.
On the other hand, it had been Omara who'd initiated their sexual relationship, nearly eighteen years back, and so he'd assumed she'd like to be his wife. But politics had been part of that, and…
It occurred to him he really didn't know much about women, other than his wives. And somehow all three of them had proposed to him. He'd never really thought about that before. It was simply the way it had happened.
If you're ever going to do anything about this, he told himself, you need to talk these things over with Omara. He examined the thought. But not now, he decided. After Five-Day maybe, or after the war. If I'm still alive.
***
In the Mountain, Macurdy met with both the king and Aldrik Egilsson Strongarm. Strongarm, a stony-looking dwarf, was to lead the dwarven army north. A whole legion! Lads and gaffers would stay behind for home defense, and to keep things running in the Mountain.
Strongarm's surname sparked Macurdy's curiosity. Just how strong were these people? He was tempted to invite Strongarm to arm wrestle, and find out, but it seemed unwise. He knew too little about dwarven pride and customs. If he beat the dwarf, it might cause resentment, while if the dwarf won, it might lessen his own status and respect.
The king had received Macurdy's messages to the Rude Lands kings on tactics and training, and now made it clear that his army would follow their own strategy and tactics. "Yours are fine for tallfolk," he said, "with their great long legs and long-legged horses. But my folk will fight as an army. We've far less need than tallfolk for food. Ye've no idea what we can subsist on, if it comes down to it. Nor do we need fires or fuel. The All-Power keeps us warm."
The All-Power. The Web of the World, Macurdy realized. "All of you?" he asked. "Or just the more talented?"
The old king sized him up shrewdly. "Ye know what I'm talking about, don't ye? Yes, all of us. It's a gift given us by the All-Power itself, in the time of sorting, when we agreed to live in the Earth and delve for things of beauty."
They could, he went on, travel all day at better than two miles an hour, and sleep anywhere. Or travel at night, for dwarven eyes made use of the least light. "Even rock gives off light," the king said, "for those who can see it. And trees as well. Weakly 'tis true, but we'll not crash into them in the darkness. And yer aware that voitik monsters have no effect on us.
"We'll march north when winter comes. Cross the Pomatik River behind the invader's lines, and strike his encampments as we find them."
"The Pomatik River?" Macurdy interrupted. He'd never heard of it before.
"Our trade missions and embassies travel everywhere," Greatsword said, "and our youth are schooled in geography. I recommend it to ye." He chuckled, a deep throaty rumble. "And I've made good use of Old One's feathered folk. We know where the invader's lines are, and the encampments he's begun building against the winter." His old eyes gleamed into Macurdy's. " 'Twill be a grand war. Between the two of us, we'll grind them to dust."
It would, Macurdy thought, take more than the two of them.
It also occurred to him how little he knew of Yuulith's geography. He knew the Rude Lands, the eastern third of Oz, a small part of the Marches, and a little corner of the Western Empire, but not much more. All he knew of the Eastern Empire was, it was east of the Western. He'd correct that ignorance, he told himself. After Five-Day.
If there was an after for him. Somehow
he'd never worried about dying; it was, after all, inevitable. His fears had been of failure, not death. Failure, and mistakes that could cost others their lives.
***
The last thing he did before leaving the mountain was accept the uniforms and gear of several rakutur: the half-voitar of the elite company that had charged onto the footbridge to their death, near the head of Copper River Pass. Rakutur who'd made it across before dying.
It was Finn Greatsword who brought the matter up. His people had been puzzled by the dead rakutur. At first they'd thought them Tigers, odd as it seemed. So they'd preserved the bodies with a spell, and sent them to the king. The king had recognized the difference, or thought he did, and brought it up to Macurdy. Macurdy examined the corpses. The reddish to red hair, the green to green-hazel eyes, the strong build-all resembled a Tiger's. Rut the ears were wrong. A Tiger's ears were ylvin in size and shape. A rakutu's were furry, conspicuously longer, and lay less close to the head. To a degree they could even be directed forward like a voitu's, though not aft.
But it seemed to Macurdy that Tigers, dressed in facsimiles of rakutik uniforms, could get to places, and carry out missions they otherwise could not.
Assuming they did, in fact, become his Tigers. Presumably Five-Day would settle that.
***
On Five-Day, Vulkan stood on the ridge across the stream from the Cloister's parade ground. From there he had an overview. The body he wore differed from the normal porcine in more than size, brain, and eye color: his distance vision-both in magnification and resolution-was equivalent to an eagle's. And of course, he processed information exceedingly well.