The Dog and the Wolf

by Poul Anderson

  “Wait. I do have this,” Rufinus told him. “The end point of the Scotic raid will be Ys.”

  The pain became a sharp thrilling in the blood. “Why? To loot?”

  “Mainly to destroy. The whelming didn’t drown his hatred of the city. He’s vowed to bring down the last stone if he can. Pirates and even traders of the clans he rules over, they have standing orders to put in whenever they come by and do some more demolishing. He himself—We can make a fair guess at when he’ll arrive there.”

  Gratillonius nodded. “You confirm what I already thought. Tales scuttle around. You, though, you’ve brought the information we need about the one man we want. Good work.”

  “Will you tell the Romans?” Reluctance was in Rufinus’s question.

  Gratillonius shook his head. “Not about this. You keep your mouth shut too, so word can’t drift to them. They wouldn’t dare tie soldiers down, waiting to spring a trap. From their viewpoint, they’d be right. Also, Ys is nothing to them, or worse than nothing. They’d consider it a favor, getting rid of that reminder on these shores.”

  Rufinus waited. Gravel scrunched beneath hobnails.

  “Besides,” Gratillonius finished, “if they knew what I have in mind, they’d forbid it. In fact, it could give them the excuse they want to haul me off on charges of treason and behead me. Military action is reserved to the army, you know. For ordinary people to band together against their enemies, that’s prohibited. I’ll be calling on tribesfolk, and such Ysans as I can trust, and especially on your men, Rufinus, who are now outlaws again.”

  On which account he must dissemble before Apuleius and, he supposed, Corentinus. That hurt as badly as anything else. Since their conspiracy with him on behalf of Cadoc, they had quite put aside the matter of Runa. She was saved; he was not, but they could cherish hopes and meanwhile, day by day, like the land itself, friendship came back to life.

  They might well admit his cause was worthy. But he could not put Verania’s lather at hazard.

  She loved the springtime so, he recalled. After the Black Months, she broke free into joy with the dogwood and the larks. How clouded it would become if she knew what he intended. He must not let on when they saw each other, which was pretty often. That would make him gruff, for he lacked Rufinus’s gift for masking himself with mirth, and she would be wounded and wish she knew what was troubling him.

  He squared his shoulders. This wasn’t really the wrong kind of day wherein to plan bloodshed. It was the exact same time of year, back when Verania was in her mother’s womb, that he had slain the King in the Wood.

  XIV

  1

  Strange it was to be again at Ys. Three years had not diminished the longing for what was lost, nor had three days hardened the heart. Standing atop what had been the amphitheater, Gratillonius found he must once more punish himself with a westward look.

  The sun was low, dulled by haze, but cast a steel-gray glimmer across the waters. Cold and salt from the south, a breeze had lately stiffened and begun to raise whitecaps on them. They drummed afar, an incoming tide that burst and spouted over the rocks, surfed against cliffs, roiled about the ruins. The mist should have scattered but somehow it lingered, even thickened. Sena lay hidden beyond the vague worldedge it made. The horns of land bulked murky, decked with pale grass that rippled to the wind. A few seabirds cruised above.

  The watchman who had sent after him touched his arm. “They are the enemy, lord! They must be!” His voice cracked apart. He was a stripling, a backwoods Osismian clad only in a piece of wool, armed only with a spear. You took whom you could get and believed you could trust, if you would make war on the barbarians.

  Gratillonius started out of his moment’s trance and brought his gaze around. It left Cape Rach, where nothing remained of the pharos and little but tumbled stones of the tombs. The road out to them was nearly obliterated, gravel washed away by rains, bed invaded by weeds. Vision swept across the bight where Ys once stood. What pieces of the city had survived at first were mostly gone, collapsed and rolled off down the sloping sea bottom; against the sun, he glimpsed only formless blacknesses. Waves and scavengers had long since picked the beach clean. The canal which bore the sacred water from a Nymphaeum lately burned to the ground (by chance, Christian torch, thunderbolt of a God?) had silted and fallen in on itself. Without that drainage, the low ground of the amphitheater was becoming a marsh. Sight flew onward—a shadow tracing where Redonian Way had run; the end of Point Vanis, where somebody had dug up old Eppillus’s headstone and carted it off or cast it into the sea; gutted hillside mansion with windowframes empty as a skull; beneath, brush reclaiming those charred acres which had been the Wood of the King.

  The heights blocked view of Lost Castle. Gratillonius had seen that the Celtic fortress remained untouched save by weather. Older than Ys, it would endure uncounted centuries longer. He stared past, northward over the great sweep of Roman Bay.

  Aye, a fleet. What the boy and his fellows on the wall barely glimpsed through the blurry air had drawn close enough to be unmistakable. He could not yet be sure how many leather boats coursed the waves—about a score—but two galleys of the Germanic kind walked on their oars amidst the pack. Standing well out, it beat west along the Gobaean Promontory; and around the shores behind it were surely wreckage, misery, and death.

  At that instant Gratillonius felt simply a liberation. All was done with, the furtive preparations, the fears and squabbles and things going wrong, the wait here as men chafed and groused and neared mutiny, the wrench whenever a beacon flared on the horizon or a courier sped in to gasp that: the pirates had landed again. He had awakened from his slow nightmare, he had come through the swamp of glue to firm ground, and the freedom to fight was his.

  “The Scoti,” he said. “Stand fast, lad. We still need eyes aloft.”

  He remembered to stride, not run, as befitted the commander—over the wall, past the crude platform on it that held the pyre of his own beacon, down the inside stair. Level by level, the signs of destruction thickened, a statue wantonly smashed, an inlay pried out, an upper tier broken and lower bench scarred by stones thrown down them, the spina gone from the arena and that ground turned to mud under inches of stagnant water. Apuleius had learned that Governor Glabrio actively encouraged the plundering of Ys. Its remoteness, the stories about what haunted it, the danger of brigands did not hold off everyone who wanted fine construction material. Looted of treasures, the remnants were a quarry.

  Nonetheless Gratillonius wondered at how fast the demolishment by both man and nature went. Did the Veil of Brennilis reach out beyond the grave? Did Lir, Taranis, and Belisama pursue Their vengefulness yet?

  He forced the mystery from him. This was the day of battle. Mithras grant—fate, or whatever ruled the world, grant the revenge he himself wanted, for Dahut.

  Shadows filled the bowl of the amphitheater with dusk. Men dashed about like the sea in the bight. They shouted and swore, they clashed metal together, their feet thudded on the benches, echoes flew. Gratillonius saw Drusus across yards. The veteran was assembling those like him who had joined the force. They were aging, their armor didn’t fit so well any more, but they would be steady, the core of strength.

  Amreth yelled at men from Confluentes. His marines were a cadre among them, but few. Most had no knowledge of warfare nor any but the barest gear for it—some merely sickles, woodman’s axes, sledge hammers, pruning hooks. Yet a ray of wan light through a hole broken in the wall showed a kind of joy on Amreth’s face. No longer was he a peasant.

  Bannon and a couple of other headsmen herded their Osismii together. Those knew a little about fighting, not much but a little. They lacked discipline but probably wouldn’t panic unless others did first.

  Rufinus and his outlaws crouched in a group. Ill clad, disheveled, armed as each saw fit, insolent as wolves, they would be the deadliest part of Gratillonius’s ragtag legion.

  He made his way around to the box that had been for the King and the Ni
ne, and entered. It had been savaged worst of all Marble splinters crunched beneath his feet. From this location a speaker could make himself heard throughout the space around. He must not remember games and gaiety, music, dance, the flash and the long human roar as racing chariots rounded the spina, most especially the women with him, the mothers of his daughters. He must fill his lungs and bellow:

  “Hear me! Silence! Listen! Your commander has your orders for you.

  “Those are the Scotic raiders. They’re headed by Point Vanis. They should cross the mouth of the bay and reach Scot’s Landing in another hour. Make ready! Meet outside in your different units. You know what to do. You know what we will do.” It took repetitions to get their full heed. Then: “Death to the barbarians! Vengeance and victory!”

  He pushed through the ruckus toward the cubicle he had occupied, to arm himself.

  2

  The galleys dropped anchor. They had grounded on many a strand this springtime; but heavy with booty, they would be in peril here. Cobbles covered a strip which the tide made ever narrower, beneath red-brown ramparts of cliff, while the rising south wind churned water about the remnants of Ghost Quay and sought to drive hulls hard against it. Currachs could ferry the crews ashore. The bit of beach having room for few, most boats would thereafter lie empty, tethered to the ships or each other, watched by a few men left aboard the big vessels under captaincy of Uail maqq Carbri.

  Calls and laughter rang through the sea noise. Too loudly, Niall thought, too merrily. They denied forebodings about this sinister place where nothing further was to be gained, gold or silver or gems or wonderful weapons, only the toil of breaking stone from stone and dragging it off to push from the heights into Ocean. Well, they knew when they embarked that the King would require it of them; and had he not led them first to riches and glory? He would not keep them long, just tomorrow and the next day, then ho for home; and there he would reward them from his own share of the plunder, as richly as beseemed the high King at Temir.

  Three nights to walk from camp to the dead city and be with her who sang. If she came. He believed she would. Foreknowledge must be hers. Ranging through the depths and across the waves, she could have spied him, followed him. On one night, which they spent at sea, he had had glimpses. … The moon was gibbous. It would be there after dark for him to see by—see what?

  He felt a thrill of dread that was half rapture. It was not fear for himself. She had plighted him her troth if he paid her the honor price she wanted, and he had been doing that. His sense was of going beyond the world. It was like when he had been a boy about to have his first woman, a youth right before his first battle, a man abroad on the night of Samain Eve; but it went deeper than any of those, flowed through him quieter but stronger. He knew not what would become of him, and that was daunting, yet he could not wait for the meeting.

  “I’ve been away from you too long, I have,” he whispered down the wind.

  The eagerness was real with which he sprang into the lead currach and stood erect as the oarsmen brought it bounding to shore. To hearten his men—and, breathed an inner voice, himself—he wore his bravest garb, helmet ablaze with gilt on locks that were formerly as bright, seven-colored cloak flapping like wings about red tunic and plaid kilt, spear on high and shield faced with polished bronze. Everybody was outfitted for combat, but none to match him.

  Not that he looked for trouble. Last year a Scotic wrecking crew had found a band of Gauls come after building stone, subdued them without loss, and borne the survivors off for slaves. Niall counted on no such luck. It didn’t matter. Tonight, pulsed within him, tonight, the waves and the moon and the white one who sings.

  The ledge on which the fisher houses had clustered was largely crumbled, the upward trail a bare trace. Niall led the way. Supple as any of his followers, he skipped from rock to niche to treacherous slope. Gulls dipped and soared about him. He made the last leap to the top so as to land in a crouch, ready for battle.

  The headland stretched empty. Its grass tossed wan under the wind. The heights that reached eastward and the valley between were a thousand shades of green. Little sign of man abided—the amphitheater, dwellings half hidden by the growth that was overrunning them, marks and scraps of roadway. The moon stood pale above distant hills. Clouds scudded. There were no shadows, because the sun was low in the west behind mistiness that despite the wind was encroaching on the rocks and skerries outside of Ys.

  Niall led an advance slantwise across Point Vanis. He would camp near the ancient tombs, or what remained of them. Not much did. His warriors might well finish them, with time left to break down shells of homes and set fire to whatever would burn. He needn’t be impatient about that, however. The years—weather, roots, rot, humans who enjoyed destruction or wanted to clear the sites for themselves—would more slowly wipe them away. But he should not make her wait for that if he could help it.

  He had heard Ys itself was gone beyond ruination by mortal hands. The city hove in sight. He stopped to look. His sailors had spoken truly. Ragged snags of wall or tower still rose above the water, farther out than a work party could wade even at low tide, but they had become very few. Most of what showed were formless rubbleheaps, not yet brought down below sea level. Things closer inshore, some beyond high water mark, had taken less battering; yet they too were almost all down. Men had smashed at them for the stone or in hopes of finding treasure. Storms, unhindered by a city rampart, cast monstrous billows at them. The earth slid from under their foundations as the soft sandstone at the bottom of the bay came apart. Niall could barely recognize that which had been the gate of the Brothers.

  I did this, he thought. I let the sea in over Ys.

  I believed that would be the end. I would turn home with my vengeance taken, the ghosts of Breccan and my men who died here set at peace. But the strife wears on. She will not let me go free.

  A horn sounded, so faint at its distance and against the wind that he might never have been aware. His eyes told his ears of it. Tiny at their remove, men swarmed from behind the amphitheater. Blink of metal bespoke others hurrying down from the houses where they had laired.

  Ambush.

  The warriors saw too. They milled about and shouted. Niall’s glance swung past them. They’d be outnumbered. Retreat to the currachs—deadly slow. The enemy would arrive before more than a handful could escape, and trap the rest on the cliff edge. He raised his spear for war, his shield for silence. “We’ll hold fast where we are, lads, and reap them as they come!” he cried. Smoke rose thick from the amphitheater wall. His illwishers had kindled a beacon.

  3

  Six or seven miles thence, a watcher on a hilltop spied the signal. Wind tattered it, but surely yonder fire burned for a single reason. Shouting, he sped down the path that twisted among trees, to his village.

  It was half a dozen huts on a tiny inlet where a stream ran into the sea. Its boats were gone. Men were out fishing. They would not return till sundown, if then. War or no, they had a living to haul out of the water.

  Yet several craft like theirs lay drawn ashore. On the cove a larger smack rode at anchor, eyes painted forward on the black hull. Farther out was a merchantman, magnificent and awesome to simple folk.

  The boy yelled and pounded on doors. Men came forth. Others stirred from boats or beach where they had idled away their days. Weathered countenances worked. Oaths rattled. “At last, at last. … Is it true, now? … Lir, I promise You the best of my every catch for a year. …”

  “Avast!” bawled Maeloch. “We’ll go see!”

  A number pounded after him up the hill. “Aye,” he panted, “no mistaking that. The King’s fighting. Quick and go to him!”

  When they got back, Evirion Baltisi had had himself rowed in from his ship. He had spent the weary time of waiting there, often wishing he had stayed longer in Thule and come home too late for this. Better a bunk aboard than a smoky hut so crammed with visitors that a man couldn’t leave at night for a piss without stepping on t
hem. Now eagerness blazed in him.

  Maeloch was more matter-of-fact. They conferred briefly while the crews gathered whatever weapons they owned, launched their boats, hastened out. Women and children watched from the village. Most stood mute. Some waved, farewell, farewell, luck fare with you.

  Evirion’s boat took Maeloch to Osprey. Her crew numbered more than the fishermen of old. She carried as many fighters as had been willing to ride with the skipper. Hence rations had grown short, tempers vicious, while yonder summons tarried. He’d begun to wonder if the damned Scoti would ever arrive. Staying here like this would hardly have been possible if it weren’t in territory which had been Ysan. To these uncouth and impoverished folk also, the city was their life. These days they hoped for protection by Audiarna; but they remembered.

  The vessels stood out to sea and started west. They scarcely made a fleet, nine boats with five or six men apiece, Osprey with a score, and Brennilis. The ship was good-sized, her crew trained in arms, and a number of landsmen had joined them. As they traveled, two more boats slanted in to take part—fishers from the village who happened to see. It was their war too. Still, the force seemed a puny thing to throw at Niall of the Nine Hostages.

  “A single slingstone ’ull do for bringing any wolf down,” Maeloch growled into his beard.

  He stood in the bows, watchful. Waves chopped leaden, streaked and crested with white. The smack rolled, plunged, groaned to their thud and splash against her. Oars creaked on thole pins. Wind thrummed mast stays. It was a south wind, but bitter and steadily rising. Starboard the land loomed dark and ever more sheer. Surf foamed at its feet. Mist ahead, which should not be in air like this, dimmed sight of its western end. The sun had become a sallow shield low above an unseen horizon. Cormorants wheeled in hueless heaven, blackness aflight. With only sail, Brennilis kept well out, lest she be driven around. Seeing her thus dwindled was a lonely thing.