Dominion

by Fred Saberhagen

  The dissipating smoke, or part of it at least, came from two bonfires, that were about equidistant from the spot where Talisman found himself standing. The chanting voice was that of a pudgy man in robes that fit very well the role of a medieval alchemist-sorceror; Talisman had known one or two such in his breathing years. This man was crouched in a would-be protective circle chalked or painted on the ground, with his arms outflung in what was evidently his idea of the way a wizard ought to gesture. Nothing, or almost nothing, of real power was emanating from him. A few feet from the wizard another man, dressed in the rich garb of the higher nobility, was standing on one foot as if he had almost decided to run but did not know which way to go. The faces of both men were turned toward Talisman, displaying a rich mixture of terror, triumph, greed, and sheer astonishment.

  “Hah!” said Talisman, experiencing a powerful blend of feelings too; he understood suddenly that this pair must think him a demon that their spells had succeeded in calling up out of hell, doubtless in some desperate pursuit of wealth.

  The wizard had not ceased to speak; “… I charge thee, make obeisance before us; submit thy fortunes and thy powers to our will…”

  “Bah.” Talisman took a step toward the circle. “Whose castle is that yonder?”

  “Mine,” said the nobleman. And now there was a scramble between the pair of them, the lord trying to push his way into the protective circle with his magician, a mutter of hissed argument and imprecations back and forth.

  “…I told you you’d need a circle, told you it would work this time…”

  “…never worked before! Move over…”

  “Watch out! Sathanas, I adjure thee—damnation, quit shoving—I charge thee to reveal…”

  Talisman gave them another moment or two to pull themselves together. Even a power as weak as this fool’s, caught by good fortune at the proper moment, must have been enough to rescue him from the timeless spaceless spin in which the old one calling himself Hawk had set him dancing. Very good luck for Talisman… or something more. In magical matters there was rarely such a thing as simple luck, good or bad.

  “Gold,” said the nobleman at last, plainly and boldly. He evidently felt himself secure now, clinging to his wizard’s back and looking over his shoulder, with the white circle snug about them both. “That is what you are to bring to us.” He was addressing Talisman, in the imperious tones of one accustomed to obedience.

  “Indeed? And what is the name of that river yonder, behind the trees?” In moments of relative quiet, between outbursts of the others’ babble, Talisman could hear far rapids murmuring. He wanted to know where he was, and he asked about the river first because rivers, unlike countries, duchies, domains of all human kind, rivers tended to retain their names throughout the centuries.

  “It is the Loire,” the wizard said. “Now you must bring us gold, or tell us how to find it or make it.”

  “Bah.” Talisman scowled at the magical gimcracks, debris of diabolism, items used in their wretched spells, that lay scattered in the firelight round about. There were bones. He wondered if they had been led to murder children to add power to their spells; such was not unheard of. “And the Year of Our Lord is now—?”

  They looked at him with changing faces; plainly they were puzzled as to what kind of devil they had caught, who rolled the Lord’s name so trippingly off his tongue. “One thousand,” said the nobleman. “Four hundred, and twenty.”

  “Aha. And the nearest city?”

  Puzzlement grew, and a new wariness. “Enough,” ordered the magician, emboldened by success and continued survival. “We are not here to answer your questions, but you ours. How are we to obtain wealth?”

  Talisman strode closer to them, while they shrank down within their circle. He extended one foot, still shod in a dark twentieth-century shoe, and deliberately scuffed a generous arc of the white circle into oblivion.

  “Those who lust for wealth as you do,” he said softly, glaring at them both with intent to frighten, “will no doubt eventually obtain more than your just share of it—provided only that you live long enough. How long do you intend to live?”

  “Th-th-th-the nearest city is Orleans,” the lord of the castle got out. His voice was somewhat muffled in his robes, as he was now down on all fours, head below rump, definitely in a state of collapse. That he could achieve this posture without getting any part of himself out of what was left of the circle struck Talisman as remarkable.

  “Orleans!” Talisman mused aloud. “In fourteen-twenty. The Sword… I might have guessed. The Sword acts through the centuries. If I could find it here… which way to town?”

  At last the wizard, still more or less upright though speechless, pointed with a shaking arm. Talisman without another word turned his back on the pair and strode off into the night. Once away from the fires he paused, sniffing, listening, then shifted into wolf-form for quick, keen-scented travel.

  He had not gone far in this mode before he gained two new perceptions: the Sword was somewhere near, as he had thought, though magically protected. And the old man was somewhere nearby too, not far ahead of him.

  The sight of a wolf entering a medieval city would not be all that much of a surprise to the human inhabitants, but it would certainly draw unwelcome attention from them. Walking in as a man in twentieth-century clothing might create something of a stir also. It would be mistform or batform then. The latter would provide keener senses, and be virtually no more noticeable.

  Talisman thought it would be pointless for him to search directly for the Sword, protected as it was. So, knowing what he knew, and guessing what he had guessed, he sought confrontation with the old man by seeking taverns. It took little effort to discover three of them, not much more than spitting distance from the brooding cathedral of Saint-Croix. Halfway between two of these establishments, on a guttered but unpaved street, his perception of his foe’s presence grew very strong.

  Talisman came down out of the night on small bat’s wings, then extended human legs to find a footing in the mud, and bear a man’s full weight. He was sure of the identity of the sodden figure collapsed at streetside even before he turned it over on its back. When he saw the old man’s face, stupefied and ugly, he felt his own fingers talon and go reaching for the throat; but with an effort of will Talisman mastered the impulse to kill. No doubt the powers guarding this fifteenth-century version of the old man’s self were dormant, but they would still be very powerful and capable of being roused by real peril. Instead, Talisman spoke a soft, compelling order to awake.

  The man who would one day call himself Hawk stirred, sat up at last, then tugged drunkenly to free himself when Talisman would have pulled him to his feet.

  Grimly, Talisman heaved him erect anyway. The old man staggered, wiped his face with a sleeve of filthy medieval rags, then leaned for support against a wattle-and-daub house wall.

  “What are you? Don’t tell me you’re a man.” The old man’s French was perhaps even a little better than Talisman’s.

  Talisman, wondering how best to proceed, almost despairing, growled at him.

  “Speak up. You know, when I wake up tomorrow, I’m not gonna remember any of this. Are you perchance acquainted with the Lady?”

  “Lady?”

  “The Lady of the Lake. Didja know she was my lover, once? Well almos’. These fingers right here…” The old man held up a gnarled claw. “I once almos’ got these very fingers right on ’er little…” The alcoholic bass voice dissolved in a chuckle, half agony, half gross obscenity.

  “I know about that, old man. Or I have guessed. But right now something else is more important. I am looking for a Sword.”

  “But whooinell are you, anyway? Tell me, are you from my past? Or my future? I have days, guess this is one, when the creatures of either may come ’round to ’flict me.”

  Talisman clenched his hands, to keep them from reaching out again. “You have made me a creature, as you put it, of both, you son of the devil and a whore.
Now where is the Sword? It’s near here somewhere, else why are you here now, and why am I here to meet you? Yours is the magic that

  concealed it, am I not right?”

  “Dunno any sword.”

  “You lie. This is Orleans. Will not the Maid herself have the Sword in hand, nine years from now, when she comes here to lift the British siege?”

  “The Maid? Who—?” The old man, appearing honestly puzzled, shuddered. “No, I’m not looking ahead tonight. Jus’ gimme another drink, that’s all I want. Safer that way. Wish I could still feel good when I wake up again, but I can’t. Can’t even remember feelin’ good.”

  “Then it will be hidden again. As it was hidden before. But you can tell me where it is now. And you shall.”

  “Tell you nothin’. What are you, anyway?”

  “Tell me, you ancient madman, tell me—” Talisman’s taloned hands reached out.

  Effortlessly the old wizard’s defensive powers struck out at him. Talisman was swept back into the pyrotechnic swirl, outside of space and time.

  TWENTY-TWO

  In pastel sunlight the paved road was a flow of stone that had been moving for hours in a hypnotic rhythm, almost without pause. The surface that flowed backward underneath Margie’s stride was for the most part of flat paving stones. Underneath them was another layer, that in the frequent unrepaired breaks showed as some kind of rough concrete. Beneath the scuffle of marching feet, these surfaces gave up dust. The dust tended to drift up in a fine cloud, and by midmorning all of the trudging Ladies were white with a layer of dust on top of the flaxen offwhiteness of their dress. The dust grayed the clothing of the other villagers who trudged with them, and added a touch of stage makeup to the faces of everyone.

  Artos had got this march, this flight, started well before dawn, just as the lad who’d brought the warning to the village had advised. When the House of Ladies was aroused (overhearing speech now with new understanding, Marge had soon learned that was their proper name) they had, like well-trained troops, mobilized themselves at once. There were about a dozen of the Ladies, mostly young, but led by a First Lady of strong middle age. Under her direction the evacuation of their House had gone like clockwork. A few belongings were packed on backs, some loaded on a donkey. The remainder were left behind without a second glance.

  The couple of dozen other people who inhabited the village had been just as brisk in getting ready to hit the road. If the road was narrow, the column of refugees was narrow too, and short. There were fewer than forty people in it altogether.

  At the first indications that people in the House of Ladies were waking up, Talisman had vanished back into the night, leaving in Marge’s ear the whispered hope that he’d be able to rejoin her later, probably at night. Meanwhile he was going to learn what he could about the enemies of Artos.

  By now, midmorning, Marge herself still hadn’t been able to find out much about the enemy—or very much about her companions, either, except for noting a small collection of unfamiliar names. Among the feared and detested leaders of the foe were people called Falerin, Comorr, Nimue, and someone whose name sounded like Medrow, the last especially despised as traitor.

  She puzzled continually and uselessly over where her newfound ability to understand these people’s language had come from. She had not yet revealed her new understanding, though she felt intuitively that she would be able to speak as well as understand, whenever she chose to try. And, without appearing to listen, she continued to absorb the talk of those around her, picking up what information she could. She learned less than she would have thought, for the people who spoke to each other were always assuming background knowledge that Marge simply didn’t have.

  And Marge was tired. A little lightheaded, not at all confident that she was thinking straight. She had retired early to her pallet last evening, but sleep had been uneasy and interrupted. And now she’d had to keep up for hours with what she considered a damned hard hike. It was a good thing that she’d been in shape when this whole crazy experience started.

  There were three or four donkeys, used as pack animals. The only horses were carrying half a dozen fighting men. These were all evidently leaders, and there was no chivalrous nonsense out of them about offering weaker folk a ride. This small cavalry squadron, wearing chain mail over regular clothes, was led by the short, forceful man, Artos—that had turned out to be his name and not the name of the village. Armed with short spears, knives, shields, and the only two swords that Marge had seen since her arrival, the cavalry since dawn had been maneuvering in and out of sight of the trudging foot column. Sometimes they went trotting ahead to scout the way. At other times they dropped back, or vanished along hedgerows to one side of the road or the other, Marge supposed to look out for ambush or pursuit. Among the people on foot, ten or a dozen men and boys were carrying spears and short blades, serving as immediate armed escort.

  Marge had heard frequent mention of something called the Strong Fort. It was the place they were trying to reach, and she gathered that they might possibly get there sometime tomorrow. She supposed that meant at least one night spent in the open, in what promised to be an uncomfortable camp. Marge wasn’t looking forward to the night.

  A distant whistle, intended as a signal, broke in on her thoughts. Everyone around her was galvanized by the sound.

  “They fight!” one of the Ladies near Marge gasped. The whole small column, men, women, and children, had already quickened its pace into a run. The whistle had sounded from somewhere in the rear, where a few minutes earlier the cavalry had dropped back out of sight.

  Marge, surrounded by grim, whitedusted, gasping faces, ran with the rest. The pace was not an all-out dash but a long-distance lope, and so far she was keeping up. Somewhere far in the rear, the men of the cavalry shouted, going about their warriors’ trade. Now already the older people in the column were beginning to lag helplessly. No one was going to wait for them. The younger adults pressed on, dragging the smaller children with them as best they could.

  Before Marge was totally winded, another whistled signal overtook the refugees. Stumbling with relief, the fleeing column straggled to a halt. Some sat down where they were. Heads turned back. Within a minute, Artos rode into sight at the head of his tiny squadron, all of whom had apparently survived the skirmish in good shape. Artos had his sword in hand, and when he waved it briefly, signaling the walking people to move right on, Marge could see that it was stained. The horses of the cavalry, skittish now, snorting, walking quickly, brought their riders forward, overtaking the pedestrians.

  “And the new sword?” an old man, walking, asked Artos anxiously. The speaker had fallen in beside the leader’s horse, on whose saddle Marge now noticed there were no stirrups. None of the saddles had them, she assured herself, looking around. How did the men manage to stay on?

  Artos nodded in reply to the old man, who had powerful, gray-furred arms. “Excellent. You forged well.”

  The First Lady, hiking nearby in white gown and well-worn sandals, put in a few words grumpily: “There was no time for a proper consecration or the sword. And at the Strong Fort there’s no lake big enough to do it properly.”

  “Then, mother,” said Artos, clapping hand to the hilt of the weapon he had just wiped and resheathed, “the consecration will have to be in the using of it. Forward!” He kicked lightly at his mount’s flanks with his heels, and led his squadron cantering ahead.

  One of the ladies murmured: “Oh, if only Ambrosius were still around. Artos needs his help, his magic. We all do.”

  “Ambrosius is dead, girl.” The First Lady spoke bitterly. “Save your breath for walking.”

  Near midday, with the sun as high as it seemed likely to get in the mild sky, there was a halt beside a brook, for which the paved road made way in a simple ford. All the land that Marge had seen here so far was green and flat, except for occasional soft hills, and well-watered with streams and lakes. As they traveled she had seen increasingly more forest, less cultivate
d ground. What cultivation there was looked to her extremely crude, confined to patchy, stump-studded clearings, fenced if at all with makeshift wooden rails. The land of Hansel and Gretel, she had thought to herself. And then sure enough by God they had passed the woodcutter’s cottage, thatched roof and all, looking not only poor but deserted.

  The edged weapons she saw all about her, the stains on the sword of Artos, were impressively real. But this brand of reality only left her all the more deeply embedded in the bloodthirsty world of fairy tale.

  The march resumed after a short rest. Soon it overtook livestock being driven in the same direction, by more people with meager belongings packed on their backs. Some of these cheered aloud for Artos when they saw him, all looked relieved when he rode by. First they passed a gaggle of geese, persecuted by children with sticks. Then, presently, a couple of dozen sheep, in the care of armed but not mounted shepherds. The trudging villagers passed up the herders, exchanging a few news items as they passed.

  A little later, with Artos and his half-dozen horsemen again scouting ahead, there was a new outburst of whistle-signalling from that direction. Marge was startled out of a state of near-hypnosis into which the rhythm of the march had brought her; but her new talent for understanding let her recognize the signal at once as one reserved for announcing good news. The people she walked among made the same interpretation; there were smiles, and an outburst of chatter. Shortly Artos reappeared ahead, a score of mounted warriors with him now. Obviously contact had been made with some larger, friendly force.

  Friendly infantry also came drifting in, equipped much as the villagers were. Amid notable relaxation, another rest stop was decreed. There was a faint smell in the air that Marge recognized as that of wine, and she saw men drinking out of skins. But none of the Ladies were being offered any. She allowed herself a sigh.