Dominion

by Fred Saberhagen

  Ambrosius was momentarily intrigued. “How is it you can understand me, one or your tender years? No, forget I asked that. It’s often wiser not to know… tell me one thing only, are you from Nimue?”

  Artos sighed; probably he had caught the name at the end. Marge said: “No, grandfather.” The honorific title came quite naturally.

  Grandfather belched, a brutal sound. Gross manners—but no, here a belch probably had nothing to do with manners at all. On the tip of her tongue Marge had marveling questions for the old man, interrogations about now he’d managed to make it through the centuries to where she’d met him first. If he could do it maybe she could make it back as well. But maybe she shouldn’t mention their other meeting. Often wiser not to know: he might have said that as a warning to her.

  Artos stood up, with another sigh. The old man’s attention, Marge saw, had abruptly gone away from both of them, was somehow turned inward. But she and Artos both had things to settle with the old man, and time was a pressure on them if not on him. She knelt down, put out a hand, and gently touched Ambrosius on the arm. Shifting back to the tongue that Artos could understand, she said to Ambrosius: “On the march here, people were saying that you were dead.”

  That got his attention back, if only briefly. “Ah, little one. Now you’ve seen what I am, do you think I’m still alive?”

  No words spoken in bright daylight, thought Marge, ought to chill the way those did. She could find no answer. Meanwhile the old man’s gaze had once more shifted inward, to the contemplation of some private grief or problem.

  Turning to Artos, Marge said: “He obviously hasn’t been like this all his life. I mean, he can’t have been this way for very long. What happened to him?”

  Artos frowned at her for a moment. “I’ll allow the possibility that you truly do not know,” he said at last. “All right. What happened to him was that he was enchanted by a young woman, a sorceress of surpassing skill. Besotted, by one he doted on—he could never say no about anything to a pretty young girl. That was his weakness, and they found it out. He taught Nimue the secrets of his craft, and he taught too well, by far. She was for a time one of the sacred Ladies, you know—the very one whose place you may be allowed to fill.”

  “I’ve heard her name spoken since I’ve been here in your land. That she is one of your enemies. Beyond that I knew nothing of her until now.”

  The military leader was growing angry. “For the last few months, Ambrosius, when he is not too drunk to do anything at all, does nothing but sit and mope after her, yearning to see her, wondering why she left him for Falerin, begging all the gods to let him hold her once more in his arms.” Artos’ wrathful gaze shifted back to the old man. “There’s nothing strange about the fact that people call him dead. Nimue’s spells have forced him to destroy himself.”

  “Can’t anything be done?”

  “I’ve tried about everything that I can think of. And I have more other work to do than ten men could accomplish.”

  As if his curtain of withdrawal had somehow been penetrated by the viciousness of Artos’ quiet anger, Ambrosius stirred himself, came back to them. Now he too appeared silently angry, at Artos for disturbing his morbid contemplation. But the old man’s feeble rage was hollow and could not last long; presently it was gone. Now he looked once more at Marge, but as if he had already forgotten who she was.

  Artos looked at her too, and when he spoke it was still to her—or to himself. “And yet,” the leader mused, “he has somehow managed to touch you. He brought you here, for some purpose, from—wherever are you really from?”

  “From a far land, lord. I don’t know if I can explain.”

  “His magical games. I’ve always taken them on trust. Try explaining to me later. But the fact that he brought you here raises hope in me that all’s not lost. Even though I don’t know why he did it.”

  Artos was interrupted by a burst of oaths from the old man, who was getting unsteadily to his feet. “Where’s Nimue?” Ambrosius demanded of them both. “What’ve you done with her?” He glared at Artos. “Tell me, or I blast you inside out!”

  Artos spoke gently and sadly. “Do you think I fear you, father?”

  “Where is she?” But even as Ambrosius spoke, his rage was faltering back into fear.

  “She’s with Falerin, as you know.” That much was said brutally. Then Artos seemed unable to keep his voice from softening. “Do you think I’m going to tell you how to reach her?”

  “I cannot even use my powers to look for her. She has forbidden me that.” Ambrosius groped around him in the air with trembling hands, as if trying to seize something that could not be seen. His fingers, large, muscular, and powerless, bore great jeweled and useless rings. Never before had Marge seen an alcoholic derelict who still wore expensive-looking jewelry; but she could understand why no one had yet stolen these.

  Ambrosius rambled on: “Where’s that wineskin? I had it right here…” Then he stopped, staring hopelessly at the young man. “I tell you, Artos, a great stone crushes me. I do nothing but think of her.”

  “And drink.” Artos’ voice almost broke, then with a leader’s power regained steadiness. “You damned old fool. But I cannot spend my whole life trying to save yours. Not when kings depend on me to lead their armies, not when… you see, there’s a way the common folk have, of looking at me when I ride by. I can’t just leave them all to be part of Falerin’s dominion. You know what kind of a fate that would be.”

  There was a wagon coming out of the fort’s main gate toward them now, noisily empty as it jounced over ruts. It was drawn slowly by some kind of sturdy-looking cattle that Marge could not have named. Ambrosius watched it approaching for a moment, then turned back to Artos. “I’ve arranged for a ride. I’m going to Londinium. No, it’s all settled. If I’m not here you won’t be worried about me, wasting your time trying to do something for me. I’ll be no worse off in Londinium than anywhere else.” It was as if Ambrosius, by some trick, or great effort of the will, was managing to hold himself momentarily sober.

  Artos could find nothing to say.

  The wagon pulled up at the roadside nearby, stopping with a final jolt into an old rut. The lone driver, in poor garments, looked very tired, Marge thought, and worried as well. Probably about having to drive all the way to Londinium, wherever that was, without an escort.

  But the old man was not quite ready. He put out a tentative, unexpected hand and took his leader by the arm. “Before I go, will you show me the Sword?”

  “Sword?” It took Artos a moment to understand. Then slowly he pulled the weapon from the sheath at his side and held it up, hilt down, point to the morning sky. It was a little fancier then the other handmade weapons Marge had seen during the last few days. Otherwise she could see nothing remarkable about it.

  Ambrosius raised a gnarled finger, touching the half-polished steel. “Do you remember how it must be hidden? When the time comes?”

  This time Artos paused a little longer. Then in a hardened voice he answered: “I remember.”

  “Good; she doesn’t know about the Sword—not yet. If I were to see her again—she might find out. But I’m not going to see her again. She probably wouldn’t let me if I tried, and—”

  The old man’s voice collapsed, and with it his sobriety. He clung to the young man for support, and Marge could see the tears squeeze from his eyes. He repeated: “A great s-stone, Artos… she’s put me under it for good. There’s no way out. No way.”

  Artos abruptly turned fierce. “Don’t say that! In time, with all your powers, there surely must be something… tell me, what will it take? What materials will the counterspells require? I’ll get them. I’ll find other wizards who can help. It’s madness for us to give up like this. I’ll mortgage this land if need be, I’ll strip the kings who pay me of their wealth. I’ll tell them I cannot win without your help.”

  Ambrosius groaned. In a voice of solemn doom, fallen almost to inaudibility, he said: “It may not be.” />
  “I’ll bring the new priests, with their nailed-up god, to pray for you.”

  “No… it may not be.” Ambrosius paused, as if trying to recover himself again. He held one forefinger upraised, as if what he was about to say next would be of great importance. But then he said only: “There’s a street I know of in Londinium… it reaches all the way around the world. I think this is one alley to it, here.”

  He lurched away from Artos to the side of the waiting wagon, then abruptly altered his course and made it, in a few staggering steps, to the wineseller’s counter. Marge saw a bright coin appear between gnarled fingers, in a hand she knew, with professional certainty, had been empty a moment earlier. The villainous-looking proprietor glanced nervously at Artos; the commander’s sword was sheathed again, and what the wineseller saw must have reassured him, for he took the coin and handed over a full wineskin. Ambrosius reeled under its modest wobbling weight back to the wagon. He hung on the side of the vehicle, staring into its flat bed, which was empty, but for a few in consequential bundles that doubless held only the driver’s personal effects.

  Then Ambrosius began to sing, loudly and drunkenly in a cracked voice: “Lon-din-i-um, Lon-din-i-um, I’m going to Lon-din-i-ummm.” Suddenly his countenance collapsed into a mask of grief. One word croaked from his lips.

  The face of Artos had hardened into a mask of duty. He grabbed the old man around the waist, and, as if he were a bundle of freight, hoisted him with easy strength up over the wagon’s side and in. Then with a wave, as if throwing something from him that he did not want, he sent the wagon rumbling on its way.

  TWENTY-SIX

  “Gilles de Rais,” Simon echoed aloud the last words that Talisman had spoken. “Bluebeard. The one who murdered hundreds of children…” His voice trailed off. The echoes of old horror that hung in the air here were explained.

  Talisman nodded. “He also performed many experiments in alchemy and magic, trying to recoup his squandered fortunes. If he had the Sword here, it would have been an irresistible temptation to profane it by trying its power in some such attempt. After that it was somehow hidden again. Perhaps here, perhaps elsewhere.”

  “Not here,” said Simon, conscious of a sudden inward revelation.

  Talisman stared at him, then startled Simon by spinning and moving two steps with utterly inhuman speed. The effort stopped there, as abruptly as it had started; whatever Talisman had had in mind, it was too late. Now Simon could see the ring of half-wraiths, demihuman shapes, surrounding the two of them at the distance of a pebble’s toss.

  There might have been thirty or forty of them in all, and they were the color of the dissipating fog where they were not as thin as glass, and their faces were the faces of beings who had been for a long time in hell. Among their number were things like beasts, and other things more like men or women. Some crouched, some stood, and some held weapons. Some were clothed, some not, and the naked among them were not always those who looked the most like beasts.

  The ring they formed was not quite closed, and the open side of it was along the rim of the bluff. Talisman turned to face in that direction, and in a moment Simon saw why. Directly below them, three figures were climbing the steep hillside. They were ascending straight toward Simon at a steady trudging pace. The central figure was a woman’s, and he saw as they came into clearer light that it was Nimue—the woman he had known as Vivian. She was still dressed in her red party gown. A couple of paces behind her, at her right, climbed Gregory, while Arnaud limped along in a similar position on her left.

  Simon blinked, taking a closer look at Arnaud. The man had recently been hurt again, had suffered what seemed to be a minor bullet-wound in one leg. But Simon now could perceive a much more fundamental wrongness in him. One symbol of it was the brownish fur-stubble that had begun to sprout across his cheeks; it superficially resembled an ordinary beard, even as Arnaud had a surface resemblance to a human being. Under the surface there was a different kind of nature to be seen. Repelled and frightened, Simon looked away.

  His eye fell on Gregory, who he saw was truly human. But his human nature had been altered drastically. And he had incorporated in his very self things that Simon could not name, but that stunned him with the feeling of evil that they projected. The base of true humanity only made the horror the greater.

  With some half-formed idea of appealing for help or understanding, Simon turned to Talisman. He was surprised to observe in the man at his side something akin to Gregory’s altered nature, though with deep differences.

  Simon had only an instant for each of these discoveries. The woman he had known as Vivian had almost finished her climb, and she was still climbing straight toward him. The long red dress molded to her thighs, as with perfect balance she stepped across a fallen log. When Simon looked deeply at her now, he saw… no, there was more than he could dare to see. He held his vision on the surface. Nimue’s expression was grave, and once her eyes had caught his they held them in a commanding stare.

  She stopped a pace in front of Simon, on the very lip of the bluff. “Find it for me,” she ordered urgently, without preamble.

  This woman was someone he’d never known before. He said: “It isn’t here.”

  Nimue glared at Simon as if he’d dared to threaten her with a blow. She declared: “You saw it here. I can tell, now, what you see and what you don’t. You can’t imagine what it’s cost me to come here myself. Find it!” Her voice vibrated, almost growling, and she gestured imperiously toward the nearby ruins.

  “I can’t,” said Simon, and expected to be struck down on the spot. “I thought for a moment that it was here, yes. But it’s not.” Under Nimue’s gaze he could not lie, could not even try to hold back knowledge. “It’s not. I was fooled, by the way it’s been concealed.” Simon shook his head a little, awed. “The magic.”

  “Where is it, then?”

  “In our own time. My own time. That’s where we can reach it. It’s somewhere, as you thought, in—or near—the castle.”

  “Then we will go to where it is. At once—”

  At that moment Talisman struck. He lunged straight at the woman, from his position eight feet to Simon’s left. But Gregory and Arnaud had alertly positioned themselves close to her as bodyguards. They intercepted Talisman’s rush, caught him between them. Fast and powerful as he was, he could not break through. Wraith-figures closed in from the circle.

  The sound of the struggle was unearthly. At the moment of greatest violence and noise, Nimue’s eyes let Simon go, and he was able to turn and run. But he had not gone half a dozen steps before another of the figures from the circle was in his path, confronting him. Then it vanished, but at once he felt its hands clamping his elbows from the rear, pulling his arms behind him, bringing him to a stop. The thing laughed with a high shrieking sound, and Simon saw other figures of the circle close before him, jeering at him. The pressure of the grip on his elbows increased until he screamed with pain. If his arms were pulled a centimeter closer together, the bones around his spine would certainly crack.

  “Gently,” said Nimue’s controlled voice, somewhere behind him. “Simon is still my friend. We still must treat him gently.”

  The pressure did not vanish, but it eased out of the region of pain, and Simon could see clearly again. When the grip on his arms turned him back toward Nimue, he beheld Talisman now stretched out unconscious on the ground, his two chief opponents standing over him. One of them Gregory, kicked the fallen man savagely. The jarred body on the ground looked less human than before, more like a puppet or a statue; for a moment Simon thought that Talisman was dead, but inward vision showed otherwise.

  Gregory had put on his foolish-looking hat now and was squinting into the east. “Shall we just leave this one here, mistress, for the morning sun to find?”

  There was a little silence while Nimue considered; the peasant’s cheerful singing had stopped some time ago. “No,” she decreed at last. “Too uncertain, for one of his power. But daylight
has him frozen in man-form. Finish him now, with wood.”

  Arnaud growled in his throat. It was a low, regular sound, of which he appeared to be no more conscious than of his breathing. He looked round him, then seized a green tree-limb, thick as a man’s arm. In a moment he had plucked it, like a flower. As Gregory stepped out of the way, Arnaud raised this weapon in both hands and brought it down like a spear at Talisman, splintery end first.

  The stroke dug deep into leaves and earth, the end of the branch going two feet deep in solid ground.Talisman’s body had disappeared.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Kate had brought along a new shirt and an undamaged jacket to the hospital on Sunday morning, along with a lot of other stuff. The doctors were ready to let Joe go, and early Sunday afternoon Charley Snider was there helping him get the fresh upper-body clothing on. Kate had gone up to her folks’ place on the North Shore to give them the facts, or some version of the facts, about the shooting incident in which the news media reported their son-in-law had been involved.

  As he dressed, Joe reflected that Kate was probably mad at him for going right back to work from the hospital, without even coming home to her for a rest. But some of Carados’ friends, as much murderers as he had been, were known to be still on the loose. And Kate was religiously strict about not trying to interfere with any of the vital aspects of Joe’s job.

  The bandage on his right arm wasn’t all that hard to work into a sleeve, with Charley’s gentle help. Trouble was, the hand was still just about useless. A nurse brought him a plain sling of dark cloth; Joe wasn’t sure if the sling was going to be a help or a hindrance, but he meekly enough let his arm be guided into the thing after his coat was on. Maybe at least the sling would be a reminder to other people not to bump him.