by John Dalmas
It worked; the mosquitoes stayed too far away to hear. As he lay waiting for sleep, Macurdy thought about what Kithro had told him. He'd planned to get together with the commander of the other group anyway; now it seemed he had someone besides Wolf who could vouch for him.
A few hours later he awoke, slapping and scratching. The field had worn off. He wove another and fell asleep again, but the bites he'd already gotten still itched, troubling his dreams.
Macurdy spent another day helping the company get started in its new training mode. To his surprise, Melody was sharing a tent with the woman who'd changed from sex slave to recruit. He somehow found that gratifying; he'd expected her to be sharing one with Jeremid. Macurdy, he told himself, that's a lousy attitude. If she was with Jeremid, they'd both be happy.
On the next day, leaving Jeremid in charge, he left to meet Wollerda, accompanied by Kithro, Wolf, and Yxhaft Vorelsson Rich Lode. He'd chosen them to make a good impression: Kithro was Wollerda's old friend, and Wolf one of his rebels, and surely he'd respect the dwarves. Recommendations, Macurdy felt, would be important; he was a foreigner with his front teeth missing or broken, and a face that Melody told him still showed the pale green and yellow of old bruises.
A brawler, that's what I look like, he told himself. Another thug like Orthal.
The day had dawned to rain, not hard, but steady and cold, and they didn't talk much as they rode. Blue Wing had started out with them, but was seldom in evidence, flying high, and perhaps from time to time, far. Occasionally checking on their whereabouts though, Macurdy hoped, for the new leaves were almost full-flushed now. Men riding in forest would be harder to spot from the air without a good idea of where to look.
They rode north awhile, then stopped at a small village where Kithro spoke to several older men, opinion leaders instead of potential recruits, telling them about Macurdy's Company. One called a son in, a well-built lad who Macurdy guessed at seventeen. Yes the boy was interested. He'd have joined up sooner, except his father disapproved of Orthal.
"Who do you know that can take us to the Saw Pit Road?" Kithro asked.
"I can," the youth answered. "I've ridden and hunted all through these hills with my friends. We know every creek and trail."
"That far east?"
"Sure. We hit it last fall, after a troll raided a farm over above Berol's Run. A bunch of us spent more than a week hunting him."
"Did you get him?"
"Nah. Struck his tracks a couple times though, his or some other's the same size. Seems like he was just traveling through, instead of moving in. Maybe went on east to the Granite Range. It's really wild over there; no farms at all."
Kithro nodded to Macurdy. "Well, then," Macurdy said, "if you want to join us, get your rain cape and bow, and wrap something to eat. Your first job is to guide us to the Saw Pit Road."
The lad scrambled. In ten minutes he was saddling his horse. Then they set out more or less eastward through rugged hills, picking their way along trails some of which were little better than game trails. Here and there, a tree had been blazed with esoteric marks that meant something to the hillsmen, but nothing at all to Macurdy. Twice the boy swore and they backtracked a ways, but they had no real difficulty. It occurred to Macurdy that he himself had only a vague notion of how to find his way back, if it came to that.
The rain stopped late the first afternoon, so they didn't have to camp in it.
Soon after sunup on the third day, they reached the Saw Pit Road, an actual road with the tracks of wagons and carts. Kithro said it crossed over into the Big River drainage to the north, but they turned south. Now it was Wolf who took the lead. By late morning, the creek beside the road had grown considerably, and the draw it cut had become a narrow valley, with clustered farms. At one of these they left the road, riding eastward on a wide, well-beaten trail. Blue Wing came down then, calling to Macurdy, and they stopped to wait. There were men ahead, he said, "waiting with bows, in a place where many trees have been cut down."
Wolf nodded. "The commander had trees felled to block the woods," he said. "Any king's men can only come in on the trail. Men will stop us when we come to it, and ask questions, but there'll be other men watching us before we ever reach the woods."
They rode on. Shortly the trail left the cleared land, entering another forested draw. After a quarter mile, they saw abatises ahead, one on either side of the trail, presumably extending to the steep slopes that flanked the draw.
Macurdy had never seen or heard of an abatis before. Many trees had been chopped down, to lie on top of or diagonally across one another, their tops pointing more or less westward toward possible intruders. No one could ride through them. Even walking would be impossible, he told himself, for anything much bigger than a weasel. Anyone riding through the draw would have to keep to the trail, which could be defended by a handful of spearmen backed by archery.
When they reached the abatises, two men stepped out from behind trees; one of them ordered the travelers to halt. He talked with Wolf, whom he recognized, and got Kithro's name, then sent the second man trotting on foot up the road. A minute or so later, Macurdy could hear the dull thud of hooves ahead, galloping off eastward.
Half an hour later, a dozen well-armed men arrived on horseback, to escort and more or less enclose Macurdy's party. Six in front and six behind, herding them farther down the trail. They're organized all right, Macurdy thought, and trained, by the way they do things.
Less than a mile farther on the draw widened, and they entered an oblong basin. Three or four hundred acres had been cleared for pasture, some of it planted now to corn and potatoes, the rest a drill field. The grassy look of the surrounding woods told of livestock pasturing there, too. The rebel camp was at the near end, eight longhouses, and more under construction. Wollerda occupied an old log cabin, which served as both headquarters and living quarters.
The commander himself stood in front of it, waiting for them, and as they approached, Macurdy recognized him-the man who'd eaten with them once at an inn, and asked Tossi about dwarf swords. He was medium-sized and maybe forty years old, Macurdy guessed, and fit-looking, though not as physically hard as the escort he'd sent.
Wollerda recognized him, too, but it was Kithro he gave his attention too, pumping his hand as the two exchanged good-natured queries and comments. Now Kithro half turned, looking at Macurdy. "Pavo," he said, "I've brought someone I think you'll be glad to meet: Curtis Macurdy. He's taken over Orthal's band. We call it Macurdy's Company now."
Macurdy and Wollerda stepped up to one another and shook hands, Wollerda examining him. "Macurdy and I have run into one another before," he said to Kithro, then spoke to Macurdy. "How did you get rid of Orthal? From what I've heard, he wasn't someone who'd step down."
"He didn't. We rode into his camp to volunteer, and he decided he didn't trust us, so he made us prisoners."
Wollerda's eyebrows twitched. "And then?"
"Then I killed him, and his men made me their commander."
Wollerda cocked an eye. "Well. Best we go inside and sit down." He beckoned them into his headquarters, and seated them on split-log benches. "Now," he said, "there's got to be a lot of that story you didn't tell."
Macurdy shrugged. "It gets complicated."
"Excuse me, sir." It was Wolf who interrupted. "You might recall me; I was one of Minska's platoon. I've been with Macurdy since he cut me free from a hanging post in Gormin Town, and I guess I saw all of it."
Wollerda examined the hard-bitten rebel. "You're the one they call Wolf," he said. "Suppose you tell me what Macurdy left out."
Exaggerating only a little, Wolf told the whole story, beginning with the hanging posts. He included the campfires started with a gesture, Blue Wing, the slaying of Slaney, the tricking of Orthal, and the freeing of the captive women, ending with the organizing of the company and its training. "And we're giving chits to farmers when we commandeer food," he finished. "Good for payment when we've thrown down Gurtho."
Wollerda had seemed to enjoy the story. Briefly he grinned, a wry grin. "Well, that gives them another reason to want Gurtho gone. Now. You said 'we're giving chits.' Does that mean you're staying with Macurdy instead of me?"
Wolf didn't flinch. "Sir, you trained me hard. Now Macurdy needs men to train his people, and it seems like I'd be of most use to him just now."
"Umm. So you would. Well, I leave it to you." He turned to Macurdy then, quizzically. "You sound like one of the heroes in the old folk tales. Did you ever kill a dragon?"
"Never even saw one."
"When I saw you before, I ignored you. Your face was more discolored then. I took you to be a large, rough young man who'd been hired by the lords in the mountain to tend their beasts and baggage. Someone who drank and got into brawls." He paused. "Do you drink and get into brawls?"
Macurdy grinned. "Water's my style, and buttermilk. And I generally try to stay out of fights, but sometimes-sometimes that's not so easy." He'd almost said sometimes in this world, and wondered if Wollerda would have made anything of it.
Wollerda turned to Yxhaft Vorelsson. "How did you lords in the mountain come to associate with this unusual tallfolk?"
The dwarf grunted. "That's a story to match the others ye've heard here," he said, and proceeded to tell what had happened at the fallen timbers, including the release of Slaney and his men.
"It still seems out of character for lords in the mountain to mix in tallfolk affairs."
"Aye. I can't imagine it of folk in the Silver Mountain. But we're westerners from the Diamond Flues."
"Hmm." Wollerda turned to Macurdy again, looking at him long enough to have made some men nervous. "I suppose I should show you some of our training," he said at last, then snapped his fingers as if remembering something. "After I've had you all fed! You and myself. Sometimes I forget to eat when I'm interested in something."
Lunch was a stew of potatoes, turnips, beef and carrots, and round hard loaves of bread they cut chunks from with their knives. Bread! Macurdy was impressed: Wollerda's commissary was obviously better than his. He made a mental note to learn more about it. Another broken tooth came out as he ate. His gums and teeth hurt from one side to the other, top and bottom, even the back teeth, which hadn't seemed damaged. It wasn't too bad yet, but he shuddered to think what it might be like in a month or a week. After they'd eaten, they witnessed the training of new recruits and of more experienced men. Macurdy couldn't help but appreciate the well-trained Ozian militia back at Wolf Springs, and wondered how good Gurtho's army was.
After supper he asked Wollerda about the Teklan army. It was made up of several levels, Wollerda told him. The best was the king's personal cohort, close to six hundred cavalry, whose training was sometimes a disaster to farmers whose fields they trampled in their exercises. Fortunately they trained mostly on their own reservation. Their pay and upkeep was a significant burden on the people, but they were the best troops in the kingdom; some of the best in all the Rude Lands. In addition, each of the six counties had a standing force of two mounted infantry companies-an even greater burden on the people. Each county had at least four shires-as many as six-each administered by a reeve with a platoon of fifty-five mounted infantry. Plus a reserve platoon, called on mainly at tax time. All told, Wollerda said, the king could call out more than forty-five hundred soldiers.
Most of the population were peasants, who fell into several categories. The highest was prosperous enough to hire help, or to contract with sharecroppers. The second class owned their own land and farmed it with the labor of their family. The third was sharecroppers, and below them day laborers who found paying work as they could.
The Kullvordi had a slightly different situation. One thing remained of their previous independence: they had no bailiffs. Local headmen, whom they elected themselves, presided over day-to-day life, but could be overruled and dismissed by the reeves, who also set and collected the taxes.
"And there you have it," Wollerda finished. "Our obstacles and our opportunities. We've got to work out ways to make use of the one and get around the other. What you did in Gormin Town showed me more potential in the flatlanders than I'd realized they had." He got to his feet. "Come ride with me," he said. "Just the two of us."
"All right," Macurdy said, and got to his feet. The invitation hadn't been casual; the commander wanted privacy. Wollerda saddled his own horse; he was not a leader who demanded to be waited on, though he might if his army grew enough to seriously tax his time. Unaccompanied by aides, they rode out of camp in the beginnings of dusk.
"There are things about you," Wollerda said, "that don't add up. First, you claim to come from Oz. I've never been in Oz, but I've known a few Ozmen in my travels. And you? You're different from any of them."
"All men are different."
"In details. But every people has its own ways, its own beliefs and viewpoints. Ozmen tend to be impulsive and more or less warlike. You fit there. But some of the things you've done…" Wollerda shook his head. "It's hard to imagine an Ozman undertaking what you did in Gormin Town. Or intervening at such risk in a fight between bandits and dwarves. And not keeping the horses?" He shook his head in rejection.
"Hmh! Interesting."
"Why did you do those things? What drives you?"
"I guess I'm an adventurous soul."
Wollerda grunted. "It goes beyond that."
Macurdy said nothing for a while, not consciously thinking about it, feeling the roll and shift of the horse beneath him as it walked, the animal's smell, the sound of tree frogs in the evening. And the hum and bite of mosquitoes. He wove a repellent field as he rode.
Finally he spoke. "If I told you, you'd think I was lying. Or crazy."
There was a short lag before Wollerda replied. "I can't commit myself to an ally whose motives I can't even guess."
Macurdy reined in his horse. "Are you telling me you'll turn down my help if I can't explain why I'm doing this?"
Wollerda eyed him calmly. "My friend, I admire what you've done-I'm even in awe of it-and I appreciate the guts and strength and ability it took. I wish you success in your efforts against Gurtho, and I'll move to take advantage of them. But unless I know more about you-why you've involved yourself-I can't exchange plans with you. Let alone operate under one plan, as the two hands of one body."
For a long moment, Macurdy sat his horse without speaking, reexamining Wollerda's aura. It told him this man could be stubborn, but offered no clue on what to do about it.
"I've been wronged and abused myself," Macurdy said, "been made a slave, and beaten, and my wife stolen from me. It's easy for me to see things from a Kullvordi point of view."
He felt Wollerda's eyes examining, and recalled something that Arbel had said once in passing: That some people saw auras without realizing it, even learned to read them a bit without being aware of it. Was Wollerda reading his?
"There's more to it than that," Wollerda said. "The heart of it is something else."
Macurdy, looking for what else he might say, decided to try the truth. "All right," he said, "I'll trust you. I'm from Farside. I was a farmer there, and married a beautiful woman with red hair-and tilty green eyes." He paused, letting Wollerda absorb the words, examine them, realize their significance. He also watched Wollerda's aura, thinking to learn more about the indicators of disbelief, and maybe indignation. Instead he saw a flash of realization. "After a while," he went on, "she told me about Yuulith, and the gates, and the Sisterhood. Then one day, people from the Sisterhood found us and stole her. Took her through the Oz Gate. I followed them, but I had to wait a month before it opened again.
"Then I went through; that's when I was made a slave. And then a shaman's apprentice, because I had the talent. But not for healing, it turned out, so they made a militiaman out of me, and then a soldier in their Company of Heroes.
"I intend to get Varia back. My wife. Commanding an armed force is a beginning." He shrugged. "Sounds impossible, but I've made a start."
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br /> Wollerda's lips had pursed as if to whistle or blow. Now he frowned. "All of that! But your goal has nothing to do with ours-with the aspirations of the Kullvordi."
Macurdy's answer was not quick. He chose his words. "A hundred armed men won't get Varia back," he said. "A thousand won't. Dishonesty won't. But position might. Elevation. Meanwhile I was raised to honor my responsibilities, to be loyal and respect the loyalty of others. When I accepted command of Orthal's Company, I committed myself to them. At least as much as they did to me."
Wollerda turned thoughtful a moment, then a smile quirked his lips, and he grunted. "The Sisterhood! Hmh! Would you like to know who sits on the throne next to Gurtho? He's got a new queen; a Sister. Something new in the world-the Dynast marrying Sisters to kings. They say she's quite beautiful."
By noon the next day, the two commanders had agreed in principle and writing on the coordination of military actions. Blue Wing agreed to be the courier between them; he was experiencing things his tribe would take great interest in. And after lunch, Macurdy and his party started back to his own company.
PART 4: Strange Alliances 25: Embassy
" ^ "
Entering it for the first time, the capital of Tekalos made a drab impression on Liiset, nor did the raw freezing wind of Three-Month help. Teklapori was large, as towns went in the Rude Lands, with main streets less narrow than some, but it lacked aesthetics. In the section they'd just entered, the buildings, built one against another, were two-storied, of wattle daubed with clay, and its whitewash was grimed with dust and soot. Daub repairs formed dirty brownish patches, small and large, unwhitewashed; its thatched roofs were gray from weather and mold. Outlying sections had included buildings made of lumber, bricks, or squared stone, some with tiled or shingled roofs, but wattle and thatch prevailed there too. Regardless, the smell was of slops: human and cooking wastes, primarily. On Farside, she told herself, Evansville's worse slum didn't begin to smell as bad.