Werenight

by Turtledove, Harry

  Gerin ran forward to finish Aingus. The Trokmê lit rolling and rushed to meet him. “A fine thing will your skull be over my gate,” he shouted. Then their blades joined with a clash of sparks and there was no more time for words.

  Slashing and chopping, Aingus surged forward, trying to overwhelm his smaller foe at the first onset. Gerin parried desperately. Had any of the Trokmê’s cuts landed, he would have been cut in two. When Aingus’ blade bit so deep into the edge of his shield that it stuck for a moment, the Fox seized the chance for a thrust of his own. Aingus knocked the questing point aside with a dagger in his left hand; he had lost his bloody trophy when the chariot foundered.

  The barbarian would not tire. Gerin’s sword was heavy in his hands, his battered shield a lump of lead on his arm, but Aingus only grew stronger. He was bleeding from a cut under his chin and another on his arm, but his attack never slowed.

  Crash! Crash! An overhand blow smashed the Fox’s shield to kindling. The next ripped through his armor and drew a track of fire down his ribs. He groaned and sank to one knee.

  Thinking him finished, the Trokmê loomed over him, eager to take his head. But Gerin was not yet done. His sword shot up and out with all the force of his body behind it. The point tore out Aingus’ throat. Dark in the gloom, his lifeblood fountained forth as he fell, both hands clutching futilely at his neck.

  The baron dragged himself to his feet. Van came up beside him. There was a fresh cut on his forearm, but his mace dripped blood and brains and his face was wreathed in smiles. He brandished the gory weapon and shouted, “Come on, captain! We’ve broken them!”

  “Is it to go through me you’re thinking?”

  Gerin’s head jerked up. The Tromê’s voice seemed to have come from beside him, but the only northerner within fifty yards was Aingus’ scrawny driver. He wore no armor under his sodden robes and carried no weapon, but he strode forward with the confidence of a demigod.

  “Stand aside, fool,” Gerin said. “I have no stomach for killing an unarmed man.”

  “Then have not a care in the world, southron darling, for I’ll be the death of you and not the other way round at all.” Lightning cracked, giving Gerin a glimpse of the northerner’s pale skin stretched drumhead tight over skull and jaw. Like a cat’s, the fellow’s eyes gave back the light in a green flash.

  He raised his arms and began to chant. An invocation poured forth, sonorous and guttural. Gerin’s blood froze in his veins as he recognized the magic-steeped speech of the dreaming river valleys of ancient Kizzuwatna. He knew that tongue, and knew it did not belong in the mouth of a swaggering woodsrunner.

  The Trokmê dropped his hands, screaming, “Ethrog, O Luhuzantiyas!”

  A horror from the hells of the haunted east appeared before him. Its legs, torso, and head were human, the face even grimly handsome: swarthy, hooknosed, and proud, beard falling in curling ringlets over broad chest. But its arms were the snapping chelae of a monster scorpion. A scorpion’s jointed tail grew from the base of its spine, sting gleaming at the tip. With a bellow that should have come from the throat of a bull, the demon Luhuzantiyas sprang at Gerin and Van.

  It was a nightmare fight. Quicker on its feet than any human, the demon used its tail like a living spear. The sting flashed past Gerin’s face, so close that he caught the acrid reek of its poison. It scored a glittering line across Van’s corselet. Those terrible claws chewed the outlander’s shield to bits. Only a backward leap saved his arm.

  He and Gerin landed blow after blow, but the demon would not go down, though dark ichor pumped from a score of wounds and one claw was sheared away. Not until Van, with a strength born of loathing, smashed its skull and face to bloody pulp with frenzied strokes of his mace did it fall. Even then it writhed and thrashed in the mire, still seeking its foes.

  Gerin drew in a long, shuddering breath. “Now, wizard,” he grated, “join your devil in the fiery pit that spawned it.”

  The Tromê had put twenty or so paces between himself and the Fox. His laugh—an unclean chuckle that scraped across Gerin’s nerves—made plain his lack of fear. “It’s a strong man you are, lord Gerin the Fox”—the contempt he packed into that stung—“and this day is yours. But we’ll meet again; aye, indeed we will. My name, lord Gerin, is Balamung. Mark it well, for you’ve heard it twice the now, and hear it again you will.”

  “Twice?” Gerin only whispered it, but Balamung heard.

  “Not even remembering, are you? Well, ’twas three years gone by I came south, having it in mind to take up sorcery. You made me sleep in the stables, with the reeking horses and all, for some fatgut from the south and his party of pimps filled the keep all to bursting, you said. When the next time comes for me to sleep at Fox Keep—and ’twill be soon—I shan’t bed in the stables.

  “So south I fared, stinking of horsedung, and in Elabon the town only their hinder parts did the Sorcerers’ Collegium show me. They called me savage, and that to my face, mind! After you, it’s them to pay their price.

  “For, you see, quit I didna. I wandered through desert and mountain, and learned from warlocks and grizzled hermits and squinting scribes who cared nought about a ’rentice’s accent, so long as he did their bidding. And in a cave lost in the snows of the High Kirs, far above one of the passes the Empire blocked, I found what I had learned to seek: the Book of Shabeth-Shiri the sorcerer-king of Kizzuwatna long ago.

  “Himself had died there. When I took the Book from his dead fingers, he turned to a puff of smoke and blew away. And today the Book is mine, and tomorrow the northlands—and after that, the world is none too big!”

  “You lie,” Gerin said. “All you will own is a nameless grave, with no one to comfort your shade.”

  Balamung laughed again. Now his eyes flamed red, with a fire of their own. “Wrong you are, for the stars tell me no grave will ever hold me. They tell me more, too, for they show me the gates of your precious keep all beat to flinders, and that inside two turns of the bloody second moon.”

  “You lie,” Gerin growled again. He ran forward, ignoring the pain that lanced up from his wound. Balamung stood watching him, hands on hips. The Fox lifted his blade. Balamung was unmoving, even when it came hissing down to cleave him from crown to breastbone.

  The stroke met empty air—like the light of a candle suddenly snuffed, the wizard was gone. Gerin staggered and almost fell. Balamung’s derisive laugh rang in his ears for a long moment, then it too faded. “Father Dyaus above!” the shaken Fox said again.

  Van muttered an oath in an unknown tongue. “Well, captain,” he said, “there’s your warlock.”

  Gerin did not argue.

  The Trokmoi seemed to lose their nerve when the sorcerer disappeared. Faster and faster they streamed over Balamung’s bridge, their feet silent on its misty surface. Only a snarling rearguard held Gerin’s men at bay. Those warriors slipped away to safety one by one. With deep-throated roars of triumph, the Elabonians swarmed after them.

  Like a phantasm compounded of coils of smoke, the bridge vanished. Soldiers screamed as they plunged into the foaming Niffet, the bronze they wore for safety dragging them to a watery doom. On the shore, men doffed armor with frantic haste and splashed into the water to save their comrades. Jeering Trokmoi on the northern bank shot at victims and rescuers alike.

  It took two men to save Duin. Impetuous as always, he had been farthest along the bridge when it evaporated, and he could not swim. Somehow he managed to stay afloat until the first rescuer reached him, but his grip was so desperate that he and his would-be savior both would have drowned had another swimmer not been nearby. A few others were also hauled out, but Balamung’s trap took more than a dozen.

  A plashing downstream made Gerin whirl. Matter-of-fact as a river godlet, Drago the Bear came out of the water, wringing his long beard like a peasant wench with her man’s breeches. Incredibly, armor still gleamed on his breast.

  If anyone could survive such a dip, thought Gerin, it would be Drago. He was s
trong as an ox and lacked the imagination to let anything frighten him. “Nasty,” he rumbled in a voice like falling trees. He might have been talking about the weather.

  “Aye,” an abstracted Gerin muttered. At the instant the bridge had melted away, the rain stopped. Pale, dim Nothos, nearing full, gleamed in a suddenly star-flecked sky, while ruddy Elleb, now waning toward third quarter, was just beginning to wester. The other two moons, golden Math and quick-moving Tiwaz, were both near new and hence invisible.

  Hustling along a doubled handful of disheveled prisoners, most of them wounded, the weary army trudged back to the keep. Gerin’s serfs met them at the village. They shouted thanks for having their crops, or most of them, saved. Their dialect was so rustic that even Gerin, who had heard it since birth, found it hard to follow.

  Gerin ordered ten oxen slaughtered, laying the fat-wrapped thighbones on the altars of Dyaus and the war-god Deinos which stood in his great hall. The rest of the meat vanished into his men. To wash it down, barrel after barrel of smooth, foaming ale and sweet mead was broached and emptied. Men who found combat raising a different urge pursued peasant wenches and servant wenches, many of whom preferred being chased to chaste.

  At first the baron did not join the merrymaking. He applied an ointment of honey, lard, and astringent herbs to his wound (luckily not deep), and winced at its bite. Then he had the brightest-looking captive, a tall mournful blond barbarian who kept his left hand clutched to a torn right shoulder, bandaged and brought into a storeroom. While two troopers stood by with drawn swords, Gerin cleaned his nails with a dagger from his belt. He said nothing.

  The silence bothered the Trokmê, who fidgeted. “What is it you want of me?” he burst out at last. “It’s Cliath son of Ailech I am, of a house noble for more generations than I have toes and fingers, and no right at all do you have to treat me like some low footpad.”

  “What right have you,” Gerin asked mildly, “to rob and burn my land and kill my men? I could flay the hide off your carcass in inch-wide strips and give it to my dogs to eat while what was left of you watched, and no one could say I did not have the right. Thank your gods Wolfar did not catch you; he would do it. But tell me what I need to know, and I will set you free. Otherwise”—his eyes flicked to the two hard men by him—“I’ll walk out this door, and ask no questions after.”

  One of Cliath’s eyes was swollen shut. The other peered at the Fox. “What would keep you from doing that anyway, once I’ve talked?”

  Gerin shrugged. “I’ve held this keep almost eight years. Men on both side of the Niffet know what my word is worth. And on this you have that word: you’ll get no second chance.”

  Cliath studied him. The Trokmê made as if to rub his chin, but grimaced in pain and stopped. He sighed. “What would you know of me, then?”

  “Tell me this: what do you know of the black-robed warlock who calls himself Balamung?”

  “Och, that kern? Till this raid it’s little I’ve had to do with him, and wanted less. It’s bad cess for any man to have truck with a wizard, say I, for all he brings loot. No glory in beating ensorceled foes is there, no more than in cutting the throat of a pig, and it tied, too. But those who go with Balamung grow fat, and the few as stand against in him die, and in ways less pretty than having the skins of them flayed off. I mind me of one fellow—puir wight!—who no slower than a sneeze was naught but a pile of twisty, slimy worms—and the stench of him!

  “Nigh on a year and a half it is since the wizard omadhaun came to us, and for all we’re friends now with Bricriu’s clan and thieving Meriasek’s, still I long for the days when a man could take a head without asking the leave of a dried-up little turd like Balamung. Him and his dog-futtering talisman!” The Trokmê spat on the hard-packed dirt floor.

  “Talisman?” Gerin prompted.

  “Aye. With my own eyes I’ve seen it. ’Tis squarish, perhaps as long as my forearm, and as wide, but not near so thick, you understand, and opening out to double that. And when he’d fain bewitch someone or magic up something, why, the talisman lights up almost like a torch. With my own eyes I’ve seen it,” Cliath repeated.

  “Can you read?” the baron asked.

  “No, nor write, no more than I can fly. Why in the name of the gods would you care to know that?”

  “Never mind,” Gerin said. “I know enough now.” More than I want, he added to himself: Bricriu’s clan and Meriasek’s had been at feud since the days of their grandfathers.

  The Fox tossed his little knife to the barbarian, who tucked it into the top of one of his high rawhide boots. Gerin led him through the main hall, ignoring his vassals’ stares. He told his startled gatekeepers to let Cliath out, and said to him, “How you cross the river is your affair, but with that blade perhaps you won’t be waylaid by my serfs.”

  Good eye shining, Cliath held out his left hand. “A puir clasp, but I’m proud to make it. Och, what a clansmate you’d have been.

  Gerin took the offered hand but shook his head. “No, I’d sooner live on my own land than take away my neighbor’s. Now go, before I think about the trouble I’m giving myself by turning you loose.”

  As the northerner trotted down the low hill, Gerin was already on his way back to the rollicking great hall, a frown on his face. Truly Deinos was coursing his terrible warhounds through the northern forests, and the baron was the game they sought.

  After he had downed five or six tankards, though, things looked rosier. He staggered up the stairs to his room, arm round the waist of one of his serving wenches. But even as he cupped her soft breasts later, part of his mind saw Castle Fox a smoking ruin, and fire and death all along the border.

  II

  He woke some time past noon. By the racket coming from below, the roistering had never ceased. Probably no one was on the walls, either, he thought disgustedly; could Balamung have roused his men to a second attack, he would have had Fox Keep in the palm of his hand.

  The girl was already gone. Gerin dressed and went down to the great hall, looking for half a dozen of his leading liegemen. He found Van and Rollan the Boar-Slayer still rehashing the battle, drawing lines on the table in sticky mead. Fandor the Fat had a beaker of mead, too, but he was drinking from it. That was his usual sport; his red nose and awesome capacity testified to it. Drago was asleep on the floor, his body swathed in furs. Beside him snored Simrin Widin’s son. Duin was nowhere to be found.

  The Fox woke Simrin and Drago and bullied his lieutenants up the stairs to the library. Grumbling, they found seats round the central table. They stared suspiciously at the shelves full of neatly pigeonholed scrolls and codices bound in leather and gold leaf. Most of them were as illiterate as Cliath and held reading an affectation, but Gerin was a good enough man of his hands to let them overlook his eccentricity. Still, the books and the quiet overawed them a bit. The baron would need that today.

  He scratched his bearded chin and remembered how horrified everyone had been when, after his father was killed, he’d come back from the southlands clean-shaven. Duin’s father, dour old Borbeto the Grim, had managed the barony till his return. When he saw Gerin, he’d roared, “Is Duren’s son a fancy-boy?” Gerin had only grinned and answered, “Ask your daughter”; shouts of laughter won his vassals to him.

  Duin wandered in, still fumbling at his breeches. Bawdy chuckles greeted him. Fandor called, “Easier to stay on a lass than a horse, is it?”

  “It is, and more fun besides,” Duin grinned, plainly none the worse for his dunking. He turned to Gerin, sketched a salute. “What’s on your mind, lord?”

  “Among other things,” Gerin said drily, “the bridge that was almost your end.”

  “Downright uncanny, I call it,” Rollan murmured. He spoke thickly, for his slashed lip had three stitches holding it shut. Tall, solid, and dark, he ran his fief with some skill, fought bravely, and never let a new thought trouble his mind.

  “Me, I have no truck with wizards,” Drago said righteously. He sneezed. “Damn! I’v
e taken cold.” He went on, “There’s no way to trust a body like that. Noses always in a scroll, think they’re better than simple folk.”

  “Remember where you are, fool,” Simrin Widin’s son hissed.

  “No offense meant, of course, lord,” Drago said hastily.

  “Of course.” Gerin sighed. “Now let me tell you what I learned last night.” The faces of his men grew grave as the tale unfolded, and there was a silence when he was through.

  Duin broke it. Along with his auburn hair, his fiery temper told of Trokmê blood. Now he thumped a fist down on the table and shouted, “A pox on wizardry! There’s but one thing to do about it. We have to hit the whoreson before he can hit us again, this time with all the northmen, not just Aingus’ clan.”

  A mutter of agreement ran down the table. Gerin shook his head. This was what he had to head off at all costs. “There’s nothing I’d like better,” he lied, “but it won’t do. On his home ground, their mage would squash us like so many bugs. But from what the braggart said, we have some time. What I’d fain do is go south to the capital and hire a warlock from the Sorcerers’ Collegium there so we can fight magic with magic. I don’t relish leaving Fox Keep under the axe, but the task is mine, for I still have connections in the southlands. We can settle Balamung properly once I’m back.”

  “It strikes me as a fool’s errand, lord,” Duin said, plain-spoken as always. “What we need is a good, hard stroke now—”

  “Duin, if you want to beard that wizard without one at your back, then you’re the fool. If you had to take a keep with a stone-thrower over its gate, you’d find a stone-thrower of your own, wouldn’t you?”

  “I suppose so,” Duin said. His tone was surly, but there were nods round the table. Gerin was relieved. He was coming to the tricky part. With a little luck, he could slip it by them before they noticed.

  “Stout fellow!” he said, and went on easily, “Van will need your help here while I’m gone. With him in charge, nothing can go too badly wrong.”