by John Dalmas
Tsûlgâx rode on. It was evening when he reached headquarters at Camp Merrawin. There all the voitar had died, all at once, all seemingly in a terrible spasm of pain. Two of the rakutik guard had died at the same time, and apparently in the same way. Both of the dead rakutur, he was told, were cavalry communicators—connected to the hive mind.
Everyone there knew who Tsûlgâx was—who and whose—and as the senior rakutu, he outranked hithar of whatever rank. Thus he moved into the late General Trumpko's quarters and had a fire lit in the fireplace, while the rakutik lieutenant who'd been in charge briefed him on events.
Not much of it was useful. But there was, Tsûlgâx learned, a husky guerrilla held prisoner there, unwounded but confused, apparently from a blow to the head. Trumpko had ordered him kept alive for interrogation. Tsûlgâx had the captive brought to him, asked him several questions, and got no useful answers. He then ordered the man to strip, and when he was reluctant, slapped him with a sound like a pistol shot, sending him sprawling. "Strip him," Tsûlgâx ordered.
When the man was naked, Tsûlgâx looked him over coldly. "Tie him to a tree. As he is. Leave him there for an hour, then question him. If his answers don't satisfy you, leave him there till morning."
As the two rakutik guards dragged the half-ylf from the room, Tsûlgâx examined the man's sheep-lined farmer coat. In his mind, an idea had sprouted. He would, he decided, order the rest of the man's gear brought to him in the morning.
Then he went to the command messhall. Supper had been eaten, and the kitchen and dishes cleaned and put in order. Then the hithik kitchen staff had gone to bed. Tsûlgâx went to the mess sergeant and physically dragged him out of his blankets. "Stand up!" he barked.
Big-eyed, the man got to his feet, to stand there in his winter underwear.
"I am now the senior officer here. I've been riding for two days and two nights, eating saddle rations. Now I want a real meal. Hot! You have half an hour. If it is unsatisfactory, I will punish you personally."
The sergeant saluted. "Yes, Captain! Right away, Captain!" He looked around at the other kitchen staff, who were themselves out of bed now, and began snapping orders of his own. "Eno! Build up the fire! Oswal, bring the roast from the cold box! Fiskin, bring the pudding!"
Tsûlgâx turned and stalked from the room.
* * *
An hour later he fell asleep at the table, glutted. Informed by the mess sergeant, two rakutur supported him to the commander's quarters and got him into bed. He never knew it.
* * *
When Tsûlgâx awoke, fourteen hours later, he was ready to act. He knew that without the voitar, the hithar would not fight. Under rakutik pressure they might go out to fight, but they'd surrender on contact. He'd always known that, but the knowledge had been meaningless, because the voitar had been there.
Now it was pertinent. And at the same time unimportant to Tsûlgâx, because his goal had changed.
What he needed now was information. He didn't know how he'd get it, but it would come. He'd go out and let things happen, and it would come.
* * *
The mess sergeant was a resourceful man. Months earlier, foraging parties had brought him a number of ducks. He'd had a shed built for them, with nesting boxes and a brick stove. Thus the ranking officers sometimes got eggs for breakfast.
Given Tsûlgâx's disposition, his breakfast was to be prepared immediately when he got up, and served as quickly as possible. Even if it was nearly noon, which it was. Then he had eggs and bacon to start his day, and hot bread with butter. (The mess sergeant also had a cow shed.)
Not that Tsûlgâx savored his food. He ate quickly, voraciously, and carelessly. When he'd finished, he tried on the guerrilla's clothing. The breeches wouldn't do; the waist was all right, but they were too tight for his thighs and buttocks. The shirt was snug as well, so he had the commander's orderly—now his orderly—bring clothes from hithik supply. The plain brown hithik uniforms were less distinctive than rakutik uniforms.
The important items were the guerrilla's heavy farmer coat and cap. The cap wasn't designed to accommodate rakutik ears, but it was large enough to serve. His own boots and mittens he kept. They were warmer.
Given his now-assumed role as a guerrilla separated from his unit, a packhorse was an anomaly. He took one anyway. He didn't intend to get any closer to enemy troops than he needed to. And a packhorse would allow him to take an officer's shelter tent, an ax, abundant corn for horsefeed, and three weeks field rations for himself—dried beef, potatoes, bread, and lard.
By the time he was ready to leave, an outpost had reported an enemy patrol scouring the encampment. Tsûlgâx ordered the hithik General Gruismak to prepare a defense. He had no illusion that there'd actually be a defense, once he was gone, but the order was expected, so he gave it.
He himself did nothing till dusk. Then, still wearing his rakutik jacket and cap, he rode back westward. But not on the road. When he'd passed the last outpost and entered the forest, he changed into the farmer coat and cap, stowing his rakutik gear in a bag on his packhorse.
* * *
Mostly he stayed on or near Road B. Thus on the third morning, he knew when large columns passed going eastward. Columns that could only be from the Deep River Line. From the shelter of a tamarack fringe, he watched across open bog as they passed: units of armed ylver, followed by thousands of hithik prisoners, their hands tied in front of them.
Late that afternoon he reached the clearing. For the first time in his memory, Tsûlgâx was astonished. There weren't even rubble piles, only broken stones, without one on top of another. There were, however, dead horses and dead men, covered by new snow. He brushed one off. A rakutu. A saber had struck him across the back of the neck, above his cuirass, severing the spine.
Tsûlgâx rode across the middle of the clearing. There were many bodies toward the center, mostly rakutur. But he felt no grief. Even among the rakutur he'd been a loner.
And now he knew, really knew the situation. There was not the smallest doubt that his father was dead, and that only the hithar remained of his army. Tsûlgâx spat in the snow.
He also knew, or thought he did, what had happened. The great sorcery his father had planned had backfired, and Kurt Montag was the cause. He'd aborted it the first night, had actually stolen the Crystal of Power. On the second night he'd done ... Tsûlgâx expected never to know what. But even as a prisoner, Montag had done something to cause this. Tsûlgâx had suspected it when he'd encountered the second wagon train with its voitik commander dead. Twice was no accident. He'd known it at Camp Merrawin, when he learned that everyone there, connected with the hive mind, had died the same way.
Montag!
He didn't wonder how a physically and mentally handicapped German had come to Vismearc. How an inept psychic could block the sorcery of one whom the hive mind had chosen the next Crystal Lord. Montag had come, and done whatever it was he'd done.
Nor did he wonder if Montag had died in the cataclysm. It was logical to assume it, but Tsûlgâx felt sure the German was alive. The question was where, and how to get at him.
* * *
The rakutu followed the enemy forces to Colroi. Their hithik prisoners far outnumbered them, but the prisoners had been disarmed, of course, and their officers segregated into separate encampments. Not that it made any difference; there was no fight left in any of them. Like most of the victors, they camped not in the ruins, but in the snowblown fields nearby, in squad tents. More snow had fallen, and when the wind blew, the snow blew, along the surface in a ground blizzard. It sifted into everything, including their tents. They were defeated and demoralized, and many were sick. They were fed twice a day: cornmeal mush with hard bread and lard for breakfast, and for supper, boiled potatoes with hard bread and lard. As bread was abundant, the prisoners would stash chunks of it in their jackets, to gnaw between meals with teeth that were loosening in their gums.
Tsûlgâx had no sympathy for them. They were hithar, no better
than dogs.
Most of the ylvin army was camped in the open too. But their mood was grim, not demoralized. They were given more wood for their warming fires, and three meals a day, with meat or cheese, and beans.
Tsûlgâx knew, because he ate army meals, insinuating himself into raider mess lines. Always taking extra, and squirreling away what he didn't eat, to replenish the rations he'd taken with him from Camp Merrawin and used on the road.
Many of the raider forces wore uniforms of various sorts, but some, mostly ylver, were dressed in farmer clothes, with odds and ends of hithik uniforms. And single large mess crews served several units.
There were raiders with uniforms resembling the rakutur's. Some were dressed so much like rakutur, at first sight he thought they were. Turncoats! But listening at their fringe, he discovered they spoke Vismearcisc among themselves. They were, he supposed, some ylvin strain.
He did not live with any of them; he wanted no friendly approaches. His Vismearcisc was notably accented, and if they ever saw his ears... When speaking was unavoidable, he feigned a speech impediment, and impaired hearing. The surly personality was genuine. On his first night there, he'd snooped the ruins of Colroi, and selected a roofless, burnt-out brick shed to protect himself from wind. Then he set up his shelter tent in it, to protect himself from snowfall.
Between times he circulated on the fringe of things, watching for a glimpse either of Montag, his father's woman, or a giant boar. And seeing nothing. After several days he began to wonder if they were actually there, or if he'd assumed wrongly. But he continued as he was. From what he overheard, the purpose of this long cold wait was to decide on peace terms. So far as Tsûlgâx could tell, some general called the Lion was in charge. Why it should take so long, he had no idea. The enemy were the winners, after all. Tsûlgâx had no experience of government except the voitik imperial autocracy. He was not familiar with politics beyond differences of opinion. The voitik hive mind was not compatible with factionalism.
* * *
Another week passed, and several days more. It was Vulkan who gave Macurdy away. Tsûlgâx spotted the boar from a distance, beside a large man on horseback. Trotting through clots of soldiers, Tsûlgâx got nearer, improving his view. On the other side of the tall man was a woman bundled in furs. The man was in a uniform Tsûlgâx couldn't identify. And they were followed by packhorses and remounts; they were leaving Colroi. Along the road, men called and waved: "The Lion! The Lion!" It was the man with the woman and boar they were waving at.
Tsûlgâx couldn't see their faces. He speeded up, dodging among soldiers, trying to get a better angle. Finally he took a chance, crossing the road behind the threesome, guessing they'd turn south at the crossroads. They did, and he saw both of them from little more than a hundred feet.
There was no doubt. The man was Montag, and the woman was his father's woman, the one called Varia.
From there, with his speed, he might have—might have—taken them by surprise. Cut them off, and attacked with his saber. But there was the beast, the giant boar with its tusks. And soldiers on and along the road.
And this was the real Montag, formidable and dangerous. The lame German, slow, dull-witted and obsequious, had been a sham, a clever act.
* * *
He needed a horse again. He'd been required to turn his in to one of the horse herds, where they were fed and guarded. So he went to the sergeant in charge, and asked for one back.
"You need a note from your commanding officer," the sergeant said.
Tsûlgâx had no notion of how to write Vismearcisc, but he didn't argue. It would get him nowhere. Nor did he attack the sergeant, for there were other herd guards nearby. He simply nodded, stammered his thanks, and left.
* * *
He wasn't aware of the sergeant's gaze following him. The ylf gestured with his head, and spoke to one of his men. "Flann, take Cailon and follow that man. See where he goes—to what outfit. Then come back and tell me. There's something strange about him. No one talks like that without a harelip, and he doesn't have one." He paused, frowning. "I want to see what he looks like without a cap. See what his ears look like."
Flann's eyes widened, then narrowed. "Right away, Sergeant," he said.
* * *
The two ylver followed Tsûlgâx at a distance, to the nearby burned-out ruins, content to keep him in sight. Then they hurried to close the distance, and saw him enter a shed. Flann sent Cailon to tell the sergeant; then, slipping from cover to cover, he approached Tsûlgâx's lair.
* * *
As Tsûlgâx packed his gear, his mind was on Montag. The German had taken the south highway. He would too, watching for tracks leaving the road. If any did, and they included cloven tracks, he'd follow them.
When his gear was packed, Tsûlgâx wrapped it in his shelter tent, then lashed it onto a makeshift pack frame he'd made. He wished he had more rations. He would, he decided, go to one of the cook tents. Work or guard details often went there for early supper. He'd attach himself to one, eat, stash more food inside his coat, then try some other herd for a horse.
Pretending a speech impediment had been working. Now he'd try something more ambitious with it: claim he had a verbal order to ride somewhere; Balralligh. Hopefully that would get him not only a horse and saddle, but a sack of corn and a nosebag.
He shouldered his pack and went out the door.
"Hoy!" a voice called, and an ylf appeared around the corner of a building not thirty yards away. "The sergeant sent me after you. He says he's got a horse for you."
Tsûlgâx never broke stride, simply veered off toward the man. "Good," he lisped, "I knew he would change his thought of that." He didn't draw his saber till he was within three yards of the ylf. Then the move was quick. The ylf, however, had been distrustful, and his response was equally quick: he sprang to one side, and his saber was out almost as his feet hit the ground.
Tsûlgâx changed tack instantly. With the bulky pack on his back, he was at serious risk against a skilled swordsman. Instead he took off running, not toward the encampment, but eastward, away from it.
* * *
The ylf stared after him, astonished at the man's running speed. Even with a pack, he told himself, the stinkard could easily outrun anyone in the company.
Instead of giving chase, he turned and trotted off to inform his sergeant. Halfway there he met Cailon, leading four other men with a corporal in charge. He told them what had happened. Together they went to the shed and examined it, finding nothing of use. Then they followed the fugitive's tracks. His running strides were well more than an arm span long—six feet or more.
"Carrying a pack, you say?"
"A big one, corporal."
"That's amazing. He must be half voitu."
"That's what they say the rakutur are."
The tracks curved increasingly southeastward, then hit the east-west highway, where they were lost among others. The corporal stopped, "We might as well go back," he said. "It's a matter for the base provost now."
* * *
At the east-west highway, Tsûlgâx turned west, slowing to a jog, then a walk as he entered Colroi's unburned section. Best not to seem in a hurry. Beyond it was the great encampment. He'd been thinking in terms of waiting around for a meal, and to try stealing a horse after dark. Now he changed his mind. The sky was cloudy. Night might bring snow, and bury or obscure the boar's tracks. It was best to continue afoot. Montag wouldn't be traveling fast. He had packhorses and the woman with him. They'd camp early. He might even catch them tonight.
At the crossroads he turned south, as Montag had. When he was well away from soldiers, he again broke into a lope that, despite his pack, a cross-country champion would envy. At dusk he struck a large number of tracks that turned off westward on a minor road. If any were cloven, they'd been eradicated by horses, as they'd been on the highway. Nonetheless he didn't hesitate; he too turned west. If asked, he couldn't have said why. Half an hour later, several sets of tracks left the road.
One set was of cloven hooves.
* * *
By that time Tsûlgâx was getting sore, stiffening up. He slowed to a walk, and before long was limping. In Hithmearc, running was almost as much a way of life for rakutur—even rakutik cavalry—as for voitar. He'd never found himself out of shape before, but he'd heard of it, and realized the source of his pain. Except briefly, he'd kept to a pace that didn't tax his strong rakutik lungs and heart; he'd thought that would be slow enough. But now his thighs hurt. His buttocks hurt. His calves and shins hurt. Severely!
Ahead and to his right, half a mile or so, was a sizable bivouac—two companies of Kormehri raiders headed for home, thougn Tsûlgâx didn't know it. It wouldn't have made any difference if he had.
Twilight had died, and their cooking fires were like small, yellow-red beacons in the night. He left the cloven tracks and angled toward them. Even though the night was cloudy, the visibility was good. The snow reflected what light there was, and formed an excellent backdrop for seeing. So he moved slowly, in a deep crouch, every step painful.