The Lion Returns

by John Dalmas

  At two hundred yards he paused, sizing up the camp. A few men still stood or squatted by fires, but most were out of sight in their tents. Their horse herd was at the west end, almost certainly guarded. But with the war over, watchfulness was no doubt poor.

  He'd seen a lot of those tents lately. Squad tents, but small. Crowded as they were, would the men keep their tack with them at night? If not, where would they keep it? If necessary he could ride bareback, but he'd never learned to control a horse with just his knees and weight. He'd need a bridle.

  Later he could enter a tent and steal what he needed, but now the men would still be awake, talking. Meanwhile he'd scout the herd. He angled toward it, covering the last hundred yards on hands and knees, through dry snow that largely hid him.

  There were no picket ropes. The horses were loose, their hind legs hobbled instead of their front, so they could paw the snow for grass. Thus they'd dispersed somewhat. Even allowing for packhorses, it was a very large herd.

  He could see one mounted herdsman, and was sure there were others. One tent was larger than the squad tents, and stood a little apart from them, nearer the herd. A separate tent for the herdsmen? It seemed doubtful in so small a camp, and there was no dying fire in front of it.

  Tsûlgâx was seldom emotional, but this sparked a moment's excitement. The one herdsman he could see sat in the saddle with his back to him. Even so, Tsûlgâx crawled to where some horses obscured the view. Then standing, he walked to the anomalous tent and ducked inside. The open door let in enough light to show him tack for several horses, and numerous sacks of corn, several of them open. It took him little time to gather a saddle and blanket, a bridle, nosebag and quirt. He also stuffed an empty grain bag in his coat, and took another one half full.

  Then quietly but not stealthily, he lugged them limping to the herd. There he chose a large gelding, threw the blanket on its back and saddled the animal. It snorted softly, but stood relaxed. The unfamiliar saddle puzzled Tsûlgâx only briefly. Then he tied his bedroll to it with the sack of corn on top. He almost abandoned the pack frame, then put it on his back again, just in case.

  "Hey! What's going on there?"

  The voice was some distance off. Tsûlgâx didn't answer, didn't speed up. He gave the saddle girth a final pull, then stepped to the front of the animal and slipped the bridle over its head.

  The call was repeated, less distant now. "You! What're you doing?"

  Tsûlgâx buckled the throat latch and snapped the bit in place. Then he unbuckled and removed the hobbles.

  "Sergeant of the guard!" The voice boomed it. "Someone's messing with a horse out here!"

  Shoving the hobbles into the game pocket of his farmer coat, the rakutu pulled himself painfully into the saddle. Then he stung the horse's rump with his quirt, and dug its barrel sharply with his heels.

  It started forward at a brisk trot, passing among other horses, which moved out of its way. When it reached the open, Tsûlgâx slashed it hard with his quirt. It broke into a gallop, its rider bent low over its withers, lashing it. Shouts from behind him energized his quirt, but the twang of a bowstring was far too distant for him to hear.

  He steered the animal on an angle to intersect Montag's tracks, certain the herdsmen would pursue him. But he heard no more shouts, and shortly after he hit Montag's trail, heard a trumpet call. He looked back. There'd been the start of pursuit, but the riders had stopped.

  For a moment they watched from a distance, then turned and rode back to their bivouac.

  * * *

  Kormehri companies were well disciplined, and these had more than enough horses—much of their herd was spoils, awarded them by the congress. And god knew how long it would take to run the thief down. They could easily wait where they were till noon the next day for the pursuit to get back, and then maybe empty-handed. Not that their commander thought all this out, but the rationale was there, behind his order to his trumpeter to call back the pursuers. The lost horse could be charged to whatever sentry the provost held responsible.

  He might have decided differently had he known a sentry's arrow had struck the horse. It had been hit high on the rump, and there was not much bleeding. The drops of red—looking black by night—were not seen in the hoof-churned snow.

  * * *

  Tsûlgâx soon suspected, however, for after he slowed the horse to a trot, it began to limp. He looked back, and seeing the arrow, stopped to investigate. It had struck from long range, and penetrated only a few inches. Tsûlgâx tried to jerk it out. Fortunately for him, the horse's resulting kick only grazed him, the hock striking him with enough force to knock him down, but doing no harm. Limping, he had to follow the animal on foot a grueling half mile before it let itself be caught.

  He didn't try to do anything more about the arrow, simply hauled himself back into the saddle and continued on Montag's trail. Later that night he passed near a large woodlot, and detoured into it to make camp. There he found a sugarhouse. Stopping by it, he buckled a nosebag of corn on the horse, and hobbled the animal. Then, with his fighting knife, he cut the arrow shaft short, hoping to lessen the movement of the head in the animal's croup. If the limp got too bad, he thought, he'd hobble it front and back, and cut the arrowhead out.

  Finally he built a fire beneath the big cast iron sugar kettle, and made his bed. Being empty, the kettle heated red hot, and helped warm the shack. Twice in the night he roused, and built up the fire again. If it weren't for the pain that accompanied every movement, it would have been the best night he'd had for weeks. Instead it was the worst.

  Meanwhile he abandoned the thought of catching up to Montag quickly. If it happened, well and good. But persistence was his strategy now. A lame man on a lame horse had no choice.

  * * *

  In the morning the horse seemed almost as lame as Tsûlgâx, who didn't try to hurry it. From time to time he got off and walked, limping badly, hoping to regain some mobility in his own legs, as well as rest his mount. They'd been on the trail about two hours when they passed his quarry's campsite of the night before. That evening, Tsûlgâx camped in a streamside woods, and rubbed the animal down with the empty corn sack. He himself was still about as sore and stiff as he'd been that morning.

  * * *

  Several days later, at dusk, Tsûlgâx reached the Pomatik. By that time he was walking naturally, with only a shadow of soreness remaining. The horse still limped, though perhaps not as badly. Tsûlgâx got down, removed saddle and bridle, then shouldered his pack. He left the animal with what little was left of the corn lying on the rubdown sack, and crossed the river on foot, at an easy lope. Ahead he could see the river road and a farm, the farmhouse showing candlelight at a window. He'd stop, make sure his quarry wasn't there, and beg a meal from the farmer. He didn't know what kind of police they had in this country—probably not much—but it seemed best not to murder anyone needlessly.

  42 Confrontation

  It was near midnight when Tsûlgâx reached the town of Big Fork. Its inn was dark, except for lamplight from the windows of a single ground-floor room. The kitchen, he supposed. He found the front door locked and without a knocker, so he pounded with his fist.

  No one answered, and to waken sleeping guests by shouting and hammering did not suit his purpose, so he went to the stable. It was dark inside, but by leaving the door open, enough snowlight entered that he could dimly discern the layout. In the front was storage, and access to the hayloft. Beneath the loft, down each side, were narrow box stalls, dimly perceived. Body heat from the horses had warmed the place appreciably.

  One of the front stalls held not a horse and manger, but a pallet on hay, and a man sitting up beneath blankets. "Close the humping door!" he said. "It's cold enough in here!"

  Tsûlgâx spoke with his feigned impediment. "I can't see with it closed."

  To the stableman, the intruder loomed large. So he got to his feet; he was tall himself, and strong. "What do you want?" he asked.

  "I look for man. Big, wit
h beautiful red-hair woman. And giant swine."

  "You mean the Lion of Farside. He's in the inn. But the boar's across town. I wouldn't stand for him in my stable."

  The Lion. Tsûlgâx had never heard the name "Farside," but considering where Montag was from, the meaning was obvious. "What room?" he asked.

  "How would I know?" The stableman gestured at the stalls. "These are the only rooms I got anything to do with. The roomers ain't much for conversation, but they don't argue or complain, either. And they don't leave the damn door open." He squinted hard at Tsûlgâx, trying to make out features. No way in hell in the darkness. "You a friend of his?"

  "Yes. I from far place. In west. I was in war too."

  The stableman took off his stocking cap and scratched shaggy hair. "In that case you can sleep in the hayloft. Got blankets?"

  "Yes."

  "If you need to shit or piss, use the manure pile out back. Now close the damn door!"

  The trespasser went to it, but stepped outside before he closed it. The horse turd, thought the stableman. The barn ain't good enough for him. After a good scratch, he lay back down. He hated being wakened in the middle of the night. With all the hungry cooties, it took awhile to get back to sleep.

  * * *

  Tsûlgâx started back to the inn. The lamplight was gone from the kitchen windows. Then someone came around one end of the building and started toward the road. The rakutu cut him off, and the person stopped.

  "You got bed I can rent?" Tsûlgâx asked, closing in on him.

  The person was a kitchen boy in early adolescence, pale and worried looking. "I don't know," he said, then added, "we're closed."

  Tsûlgâx leaned in the boy's face. "What room is Lion in?"

  "Lion? The Lion of Farside? I— He— I don't know, but probably one of the single rooms in front. The rooms in back have pallets on the floor, several in each. I don't think he'd want one of them."

  "Let me in. I pay. Stay in back room." The rakutu put a large right hand in a pocket. "Got money."

  "I can't. It's all locked up."

  Tsûlgâx's left hand shot out and grabbed the boy by the jacket front, jerking him close. This time when he spoke, he dropped the lisp. "You have key. Let me in." He glared intently into the boy's frightened face.

  The lad nodded, scared half to death. "Yessir," he said, "since you're a friend of the Lion."

  Together they walked around to the kitchen door, which the boy unlocked and held open.

  "Go in," said Tsûlgâx, motioning.

  "Sir, I need to go home. My ma'am'll worry if I..."

  Tsûlgâx grabbed the boy's jacket again, thrust him through the door, then closed it behind them. Enough snowlight entered the windows to see by, dimly. "Get candle. Light it."

  It seemed to the boy that something very bad was going to happen; he barely whispered his "Yessir." Taking a long splinter from a match pot, he lit it at the fireplace, and with it lit the large candle in a pewter candleholder. The man took the candle from him, then gripped the boy by the jacket again, this time a shoulder.

  "Take me to stairs," the man said. "Do not fear. I not harm you."

  The boy obeyed. When they got there, the stranger set the candle aside, grabbed him by the throat and crushed his trachea with his thumbs, holding him till he was surely dead.

  * * *

  Macurdy awoke slowly. For a moment he assumed Varia had lit their lamp, perhaps to use the chamber pot. Then realizing she was still in bed beside him, he sat up—to see a large figure looming over him. He felt the jab of a saber through the blankets.

  "Lie back down, Montag!"

  The order was murmured in thickly accented German. Montag! Macurdy's skin crawled.

  "Curtis," Varia said muzzily, "is anything the matter?"

  "It's Tsûlgâx," he answered.

  She sat up as if propelled by a spring. "What?"

  "He is right." Tsûlgâx spoke Yuultal this time. "He killed my father and stealed you." He did not remove his eyes from Macurdy's, or his sword tip from Macurdy's belly. "Get from bed, woman. Clothe yourself for travel. If you disobey me, or make difficulty, I kill your lover. Pin him to bed, then kill you. You follow my orders, you live. And he live for a while."

  Carefully and without speaking, she slid naked out of bed. Tsûlgâx gave her not a glance.

  Macurdy had examined the weapon threatening him. Single-edged. But even so, held strongly in a determined hand, with the point already in his skin, there was no chance in hell he could knock it away. The angle of thrust would drive it through his guts and into his chest.

  "You think I killed your father?" he asked. "How could I have done that, tied and gagged, with a rakutu sitting by me?"

  "It is no difference how. You killed him. I told him in Bavaria you were danger to him. Told him again at Voitazosz. He not believed. Now it is happened."

  "You thought that even in Bavaria?"

  "I never trusted Nazis. If you get what you want, you kill us all. And destroy gate."

  "I was no Nazi. I was their enemy. A spy. The Nazis are dead now. My people destroyed them. We had a greater sorcery than the Nazis and their allies."

  Tsûlgâx snorted. "Farside people no sorcerers. No..." He groped for the word. "No talent." Then he spoke to Varia without looking at her. "You ready to leave, woman?"

  "I'm ready to scream," she said.

  "Do not. It is no good. At first sound, Lion is dead. Then you. You do what I say, I not kill you."

  Macurdy spoke as if Tsûlgâx's exchange with Varia hadn't occurred. "You loved your father, didn't you?" he asked.

  "Don't talk to me about love my father! You love yours? My father always kind to me. To Rillissa and me, but more to me. Me he keeped by him. It all right that I not have hive mind. He kind to me anyway. He tell me, Tsûlgâx, we be always together, you and me."

  "And you think I spoiled that."

  "I kill you for it. But not yet."

  "What do you have in mind? A fight hand to hand? Or a duel, with sabers?"

  Tsûlgâx snorted scornfully. "Duel too quick. I..."

  There was a noise from below, hard to identify. Tsûlgâx frowned. His eyes flicked aside for just an instant.

  Varia heard it too. "Excuse me, Tsûlgâx," she said. "Shall I wear boots for riding or for walking?"

  There was a hard heavy thudding from the stairs, then the hall. Tsûlgâx frowned, and the saber tip bit deeper as his eyes jerked toward the door. Macurdy tensed, readying himself.

  Abruptly two hard hooves struck the door, driving it crashing out of the frame, and Vulkan's monstrous head and neck came through, great tusks clacking. Tsûlgâx jumped back, eyes wide, saber raised in defense. As he did, Macurdy threw off the cover and gestured. Tsûlgâx screamed, throwing the saber from him. It landed on the foot of the bed, red hot, and the blanket began at once to smolder. At the same time, Macurdy rolled out of bed, into the knees of the distracted Tsûlgâx. The rakutu jumped back, drawing his belt knife as Macurdy scrambled to his feet. Another gesture, and the knife dropped to the floor—just as Varia, with all her strength, slammed the rakutu on the head from behind, with a heavy oak stool.

  She'd always been strong; given the circumstance, her strength was tripled. Tsûlgâx fell. Ignoring him now, she stepped to the window and pushed it open. Then without pausing, she dragged the covers from the bed, flames flickering at one end. Wadding them roughly, she thrust them out the window, and they fell to the snowy ground. Then she poured the water pitcher onto the featherbed, which was beginning to smolder and stink.

  There were excited voices in the hall. With Tsûlgâx down, Vulkan withdrew his bulk from the doorway and backed toward the stairwell. Wearing a nightshirt to his shanks, the innkeeper looked into the room. Guests peered in past him, their eyes on Macurdy, who was bent buck-naked over a figure on the floor. Before raising the unconscious rakutu, he removed the winter cap, exposing the ears. They were more than four inches long, covered with fine, curly red hair. The terminal three inc
hes were free, voitulike.

  Macurdy turned to the men in the doorway. "It's a rakutu," he said matter-of-factly. "Half-blood voitu. He's the son of the invader's commander, Crown Prince Kurqôsz. I didn't know he was still alive. He tracked me down to kill me, for revenge."

  He turned to Varia. "I'm pretty sure he's dead. His skull's caved in, and stuff's run out his nose and ears."

  Varia looked ill but didn't say a thing. Macurdy dragged Tsûlgâx into the hallway and talked briefly with the innkeeper, who dragged the wet and stinking featherbed away, returning shortly with one in decent shape, and fresh bedding.

  Bidding his host goodnight, Macurdy went back into hus room and closed the door. With three volunteers, the innkeeper lugged the corpse of Tsûlgâx to the woodshed. It would freeze solid by morning.