by John Dalmas
In a fey mood, Macurdy renamed his new horse Piglet, though it was nearly as large as Hog. It was easy to laugh now, as if passage through the gate had finished healing the trauma of Mary's death, though the scar would remain.
He rode about swordless. Instead, in a saddle sheath, he carried a woodsman's ax, and on his belt, the heavy knife Arbel had given him so long ago. He'd stop awhile in a river woods, and practice throwing both knife and ax at sycamores, silver maples, gums and cottonwoods, renewing skills that had served him well in Yuulith. And in Oregon had led to his marriage.
For more vigorous exercise, he cut and split firewood for Arbel. And practiced with the Wolf Springs militia—two evenings a week with the youth class, and on Six-Day afternoons with the veterans. He would, he supposed, need his old warrior skills, which had rusted considerably. Fortunately they derusted quickly, for every eye was on him, and it seemed important that his reputation continue strong.
Meanwhile the redbud trees bloomed, then the dogwoods and basswoods. The elms and others burst buds, sheening the forest with thin and delicate green.
They were busy days, improving his healing and fighting skills, cutting wood, savoring the progress of spring ... but all were secondary to reunion with Vulkan. Vulkan would know where to take him, or send him, and what to do next.
For the feeling had grown in Macurdy that he had a reason to be in Yuulith beyond making a new life for himself, with a woman who did not age.
* * *
At the end of the fourth week, he was visited by a strange dream. In it he found himself wearing an SS uniform. But not in Bavaria. This was on a coast, somewhere in Hithmearc, and he was visiting a shipyard with Crown Prince Kurqôsz. One minute the ships were square-rigged—barks. A moment later they'd be LCMs—World War II landing craft. Kurqôsz told him he was going to take an army across the Ocean Sea in them, to conquer a land called Vismearc. Which worried Macurdy, for it seemed to him that Vismearc was America.
Knowing the Voitusotar, Macurdy wondered how any of them could make it across the ocean alive. Kurqôsz answered that he was taking an army of monsters across. "Monsters?" Macurdy asked. Then he remembered his dreams during the war, of huge monsters trampling GIs on the beach, and flailing them with anchor chains.
Now Kurqôsz was accompanied by a human woman. Macurdy asked why. The crown prince laughed. "I like their fuller curves," he said, "and their submissiveness. And when they are fertile with us, their boy children are rakutur. Very useful, the rakutur." Then the woman was Varia. She winked at him, and as if it was a signal, Macurdy woke up.
* * *
That morning at breakfast, he told Arbel he was leaving before lunch. That he'd dreamt it was time to go. Arbel examined Macurdy's aura. "Yes," he said, "I see it is."
Well before midmorning, Macurdy had his saddlebags and bedroll on Piglet. Along with the war gear he'd left with Arbel seventeen years earlier: helmet, saber, and a light-weight, dwarf-made byrnie, all still shimmering with Kittul Kendersson's protective spells.
Swinging into the saddle, he gave Arbel a good-bye salute, then rode off down the dirt track that in Wolf Springs constituted the main street. Quickly he was out in the countryside, headed for Oztown, the capital.
11 Zassfel
It was early dusk when Macurdy arrived at Oztown. By standards west of the Great Muddy River, Oztown was populous, with three or four thousand people. But it was rural nonetheless, with corn patches, chickens, cows, pigs, horses... Macurdy had a mile to ride down its principal "street" to reach the chief's residence.
Riding past a tavern, Macurdy thought he recognized a large man about to go inside. Though if he was right, the man had changed a lot. Guiding Piglet to the hitching rail, Macurdy dismounted and secured the reins. Then he cast a light concealment spell over the animal—enough to make him easily ignored—and went in.
The place reeked of pine torches. He looked the room over. The man he wanted was bellied up to the bar, and Macurdy walked over to stand beside him. "Hello, Zassfel," he said quietly.
The face that turned to him was fleshy, florid, and considerably scarred. For just a moment the eyes squinted suspiciously at Macurdy, then widened in recognition. "You!"
"Me. What are you drinking?"
It took a moment for Zassfel to answer. "Whiskey. What else?"
At that moment, the barkeeper set a glass of it in front of Zassfel. "Five coppers," he said.
"On me," Macurdy told him, "and I'll have one." He dug into a pocket and came up with a silver teklota. The barkeeper peered at it, then went to his scale and weighed it, returning with a smaller silver coin and several coppers.
Zassfel's look reverted to suspicion, underlain by hostility. "What are you buying me whiskey for?" he growled. "I'm no friend of yours."
"For old times' sake. I'm just back from Farside. Visiting old friends, and maybe curing old grudges."
Zassfel scowled. "This one'll take a lot of curing."
Macurdy deliberately misunderstood. "Not too much," he said. "Sure you had five guys jump me and beat me up. But that was a long time ago, and I evened the score the next day."
The old sergeant's mouth twisted, then he knocked back half his tumbler of whiskey. "You ruined my life," he said. "That damn Esoksson kicked me out of the Heroes, and I had less than a year to serve. One more year and I'd have had a big farm, livestock, and slaves to do most of the work."
"Huh? How did I make that happen? A slave like I was?"
"You took that dog-humping spear maiden with you, and that weasel Jeremid. Then people started saying it was my fault—that I'd 'abused my authority'—and Esoksson kicked me out."
Macurdy had started to react to the slanders against Melody and Jeremid, then let them pass. Zassfel took a smaller swallow and continued. "Then, after you got famous, and everyone was kissing your ass, they started throwing shit at me. 'Zassfel's a stupid horse turd,' they said. I had to start reminding them how I made platoon sergeant. Beat the shit out of three or four," he added with satisfaction. "After that they didn't say it where I could hear them."
"Ah," said Macurdy, nodding sympathetically. "Life can be like that."
Zassfel's scowl returned. "What ever happened to you, that you can say that? Everything fell in your lap."
"Not really. My first wife got stolen by the Sisters and ended up married to an ylf. And Melody drowned; broke through the ice." He didn't mention Mary and the baby. "And after I went back to Farside, there was a big war there. I got scars you wouldn't believe. Damn near bled to death." He laughed. "Not to mention your guys beating the shit out of me, just down the street from here. Didn't have a tooth left, except for my grinders."
Zassfel peered carefully at Macurdy's grin, then finished his whiskey. "I heard about you growing them all back. You're not even human. Part ylf on one side, part Sister on the other." Macurdy didn't trouble to correct him, but let him talk on. "Ylf, Sister, it's all the same thing, though. When I knew you before, we looked about the same age." He gestured. "Now look at me."
Macurdy signaled the barkeeper, then looked Zassfel up and down. "You don't look so bad, for someone that lives hard. I'll bet there's not many guys pick fights with you. What do you do these days?"
"Damn right they don't. One thing I've kept is my strength. I got a wagon and team. I haul stuff. Whatever anyone wants hauled, I load and haul it. And I'm not doing bad. I even got me a slave, a pretty good screw. She's home with the kids."
* * *
The two men stayed in the tavern till late, mostly trading off buying. Macurdy used the spell he'd concocted, based on one of Arbel's, to metabolize the alcohol as fast as he absorbed it. A spell he'd used in the army during World War II, to let him drink with his buddies without getting drunk.
Zassfel asked to see Macurdy's scars from the war on Farside, and Macurdy dropped his pants to show him. That got the attention of the tavern's patrons, who gathered around to see. The truth would have been incomprehensible to them, so Macurdy answered creativ
ely. "You've got to watch out for those war dogs," he explained, and patted his scarred buttocks, torn by mortar shell fragments on Sicily. "You get busy with people in front of you, they'll hit you from behind."
It was the long surgical scars on his right leg that impressed the audience most, though. "Bhroig's balls, Macurdy!" Zassfel said. "I never seen scars like those before! What happened?"
Again Macurdy answered creatively. "I got knocked out of my saddle, and trampled by horses. A Farside shaman cut my leg open and put the bones together again."
Zassfel nodded thoughtfully, his eyes on Macurdy's groin. "And that's a real club you've got there. The party girls would have loved it." He paused, thinking, his lips pursed. "But you got the best of it. You got the spear maiden."
* * *
Zassfel had a large capacity for booze, but after a time he fell down on his way to the latrine out back. Macurdy helped him up, and Zassfel relieved his bladder in the weeds. He wasn't the first. It smelled of urine and vomit there.
"I'm drunk," he slurred. "Don' usually get this bad. Gotta get up early. Big job t'do, take all day." He laughed. "One thing 'bout me, never hung over." He patted his thick belly. "There's muscle behin' this. Drink all night, an' outwork anyone the nex' day."
Steadying himself, he thrust out a hand. "Shake, ol' buddy," he said. "Le's see how strong you are."
They gripped, Macurdy careful not to squeeze too hard. "That's a hell of a grip you've got, Zassfel," he said. "There's damn few I can't grip down."
Zassfel smirked. "Damn right. Same here." He paused, peering at Macurdy. "You know what?" he said.
"No. What?"
"You're all right, Macurdy. Damn if you aren't! I didn' give you credit before. 'Member that jaguar we treed...?"
After another drink, they left the tavern together, Zassfel weaving along, singing bawdy songs off-key. It wasn't far to his house. When they got there, his wife had put the kids to bed. She'd been pretty once, Macurdy realized, probably one of the party girls brought to the House of Heroes on Six-Day evenings. She'd gotten somewhat hefty over the years, but bore no overt signs of abuse.
"Macurdy," Zassfel said, "this is Kleffi. She's a good woman and a good hump. You wanna try her, iss okay." He paused. "Or not. Thass okay too. I 'member how you never humped the party girls."
"You're right," Macurdy said, "I never did. That's an old custom among some people. They just hump their wives."
Zassfel nodded sagely. "Differn' people got differn' ways. Thass a fack." He paused. "You sure you don' wanna hump her?"
Macurdy nodded soberly. "I know she's good. I can tell those things. But for me, it wouldn't be all right to."
Zassfel peered at him, simultaneously earnest and vague, then reached for Macurdy's hand. This time it didn't turn into a gripdown. Instead the ex-sergeant stood silent, Macurdy's big paw grasped in his own. "You're all right, Macurdy," he repeated after a long moment, the words quiet. "You're all right... You're all right..." He paused, then gave the hand a weak squeeze, a slight shake, as if the evening had suddenly caught up with him. "You're all right," he said.
Then he let go. Macurdy clapped the Ozman's big shoulder and left.
* * *
He returned to the tavern for Piglet, then hired a bed in an inn. Afterward he took Piglet to a livery stable across the street, let him drink all he wanted, and saw that he had hay and oats. He brushed and rubbed him down himself. Then, in his room, he wove an insect repellent field about himself, and went to bed.
He did not sleep at once. Instead he reviewed his evening with Zassfel. And realized how good he felt about it. It had been healing for both of them, and it seemed to Macurdy that it marked a turning point in his life.
12 Vulkan
The next morning, Macurdy paid a courtesy call on the Chief of the Oz, and managed to be on his way again before midday. He wouldn't worry about Vulkan finding him. He'd found him before, without even knowing who, exactly, he was looking for. Presumably he'd find him again, if he was still interested. Meanwhile, Macurdy would cross the Great Muddy, ride southeast to the Green River Valley, and thence to the royal palace at Teklapori. Except for Arbel—and Varia, he hoped, and maybe Omara—his best human friends in Yuulith were in Tekalos. Pavo Wollerda was king there, or had been when Macurdy had left, and Jeremid had a farm in the Kullvordi Hills.
The route was familiar, and lovely in advanced spring. On the third day he rode a ferry raft across the Great Muddy into the kingdom of Miskmehr, rich in forested hills and valley farms, though not in money. The Miskmehri had provided two cohorts of tough, self-reliant infantry to fight the ylver in Quaie's War. Earlier, during Quaie's Incursion, only an unprotected border had separated them from the savage fate of Kormehr, and the memory had still been fresh.
Meanwhile, the weather had changed from showery to bright, cool at night, warm by day. Drawing on the Web of the World for nighttime warmth, Macurdy found it simpler and more pleasant to sleep beneath the forest canopy or open sky, than in an inn or some farmer's barn. Metabolic energy in general he could draw from the Web, thus even eating was less urgent than it would otherwise have been. Though his stomach complained when he didn't. For vitamins, minerals, proteins, he stopped at farms along the way, buying cheese, scrawny chickens, overwintered vegetables and wizened apples. And ate the mild forest leeks abundant in that season, until the smell of him could have repelled barn flies at twenty feet.
In time, the winding dirt road he'd been riding reached the wider, straighter dirt road known as the Valley Highway. At the junction, the brush-tangled forest blowdown where he'd earned the friendship of the dwarves, and the enmity of Slaney's brigands, was thick young forest now, fifty feet tall.
It was there he was halted by a voice he knew well, deep and resonating within his skull. «Aha! Macurdy! I knew I'd meet you soon.»
It was thought, not words that reached him. About forty yards ahead, a great boar trotted from the forest. In size, it suggested an Angus bull, though the large head and tusks, the high shoulders, the deep narrow body that tapered toward the hindquarters, all were strictly wild hog. Piglet began to prance skittishly, and Macurdy reined him in, while patting the arching neck. "Whoa, boy, easy now, easy..." Then a wordless calm washed over them both, intended for Piglet, who quickly settled down.
"Vulkan!" Macurdy called, "I figured you'd find me! When did you know I was back?"
The boar trotted casually toward them, stopping half a dozen yards away when Piglet shifted restlessly again. There was black muck on the tusked snout, as if it had been rooting up skunk cabbages. And suddenly Macurdy was unsure whom he faced, for this creature had red eyes.
Then the boar answered. «I sensed a month ago that you were back. I was visiting the Scrub Coast, the ocean coast, reminding them of our existence. It is one of my duties. In this world, it is intended that humankind know a...» He paused, his mind tinged with amusement. «...know a larger reality than on Farside. And of course, I must maintain my myth; that is another duty.
«And on my way back to meet you, I stopped to visit the King in Silver Mountain.»
"The dwarf king? They let you inside the mountain? I thought everyone was scared of you."
«The dwarves do not fear us. A great boar befriended them in an earlier age. In the time of the high trolls, an experiment gone awry. You are not the only outsider they call dwarf friend.»
"When I knew you before, your eyes were black. Now..."
«Now they are red. They make me more impressive, which makes you more impressive.»
"Me?"
«You.»
Macurdy contemplated that a moment, then set it aside. "How are we going to travel together, with me riding Piglet?"
«He will be all right now. Though you may want to leave him at Teklapori.»
"Teklapori? How did you know I was going there?"
«Where else? When we leave there for the north—assuming you choose to—I can carry you. It will be a bigger public sensation if you ride on me.�
�
Macurdy laughed. "You got that right." He paused. "North together?"
«If you so choose.»
"Why do you want to create a public sensation?"
«A maximum of fame—suitable fame—will be useful to your task.»
"My task." Macurdy frowned. "What task?"
«I do not know yet. But it will be important. Critical. You are already a legend in Yuulith; you've been heard of even on the Scrub Coast. But to many it is a legend of the past. We must renew and enhance it.»