Ordination

by Daniel Ford

  His thirst finally quenched, Torvul continued. “Now, then. That all might sound a bit boring to non-dwarfish folk such as yourselves, but I reckon the telling gets more interesting when I add this: when two Loresingers have sung together to add to our History, every Loresinger in the world knows what they have sung.”

  Idgen Marte sat bolt upright, sputtering in disbelief. “But that’s impossible.”

  “Says the woman who is the handpicked servant of a newly woken Goddess,” Allystaire pointed out quietly.

  “Talkin’ sense for once,” Torvul said, nodding in Allystaire’s direction. “I don’t understand how it works, but it does; without it, we’d long since have dispersed, I s’pose. We’ve not got the Homes, but we have the History, and it keeps us one.” A pause. “Most of us.”

  “What was the song you sang when you healed me,” Allystaire asked suddenly. “I heard your voice, and though I had no idea of the words, I felt…anchored. Drawn together with you, somehow.”

  “Ah, that, well. That’s just a song all dwarfs know.”

  “The Goddess made mention of it when She came for you,” Allystaire recalled. “She said it had been a long time since you sang it.”

  “She also called you something long and like to crack my jaw if I attempt to pronounce it,” Idgen Marte put in.

  “Mourmitnourthrukacshtorvul,” the dwarf said, nodding. “That is my name, my real name, as given by my family.”

  “I can see why you go by Torvul,” Idgen Marte chortled.

  “Yes, I take pity on your poor, all too human powers of elocution. Now, as for that song Her Ladyship mentioned, well.” Torvul reached for the wineskin and half drained it before going on. “Songs aren’t just for the Loresingers. Every caravan has a song; every city in our Homes had one, every family. We sing them to remind each other who we are, what we are. It is how we know we’re dwarfs. It is how we feel at home when we have none. And I’ve long suspected it’s how we power our magics—obviously the Loresingers, the weapons—but even the alchemy.” He jabbed a finger at the air. “I could never quite prove it, but now…”

  “The song,” Idgen Marte nudged him on.

  “Ah, right.” Torvul rubbed his bald pate with one big hand. “Well, the song I sang was a family song. A song of bonding, usually sung every night. I hadn’t sung it in two years.”

  “You have been apart from your caravan for two years?”

  “I’ve been apart from my caravan for five,” Torvul answered. He gave the wineskin a shake, found it too empty to suit him, and tossed it to Allystaire. “I’m done with questions for the night. Time for bed. I’ll take the third watch.” With that the dwarf got up and moved off, leaving behind his brazier.

  “I will take the first,” Allystaire said, as Idgen Marte watched Torvul trundle off. Soon the fire was banked, the remains of food and drink cleared, Idgen Marte ensconced in her hammock in a tree, and Allystaire was standing alone.

  When he strained to listen, he thought he heard, very faintly, the sound of Torvul’s rumbling voice singing in his strange and mournful-sounding language.

  CHAPTER 37

  A Realization at Londray

  After two solid days and half of a third of travel without cease, they reached Londray. The city lay on the curve of a roiling bay where the Western Sea and the Ash River met. The effluvia from the city itself turned the brackish bay into a malodorous stew, the stench of which had Torvul complaining before any of it was even in sight.

  Great cliffs running north and south of the city ensured that it sat in the only natural harbor for miles, and the mountain range that divided the barony in half could be seen to the east, grey-capped and not a far ride. The city itself sprawled over and around its curtain wall, cobbled together out of the grey-white stones of the surrounding cliffs. A seawall rose against the bay, and a forest of masts crowded its quays, flying the flags of a dozen lords, the barony itself, and distant nations.

  “It has grown since last I saw it,” Allystaire said, as they sat on a rise in the road looking far ahead. “Never a good idea to have your folk spilling over the walls like that. Lionel is getting complacent,” he continued to muse aloud, folding his hands atop the pommel of his saddle, “though he has good reason to be somewhat less than vigilant.”

  “What d’ya mean?” Idgen Marte, who had been ranging around behind him and Torvul’s wagon, pulled her mount next to his.

  “Look.” Allystaire pointed to the huge, gleaming walls of a castle that squatted in the northwest corner of the city. “The Dunes. His seat, and the nut you have to crack to take this city. It is nigh impossible to besiege the place as is, but even if you do, in order to bring anything in range you have to get through the city itself and thousands—”

  Suddenly Allystaire’s thoughts broke off and his hands squeezed together into fists, his shoulders trembling with the force of an onrushing anger. “Through thousands of the city’s folk. And for years, for years this is how we have fought.”

  “You didn’t invent the rules, boy,” Torvul said.

  “You didn’t build a castle that way, either,” Idgen Marte pointed out. “This Lionel’s great-great-grandfather or somethin’ like it did.”

  “I spent years, years trying to plan how to take this place. Years of my life, and I thought of everything—where and when to cross the mountains, how to maintain supply, what to do about the harbor, whether or not to try and force the mouth of the Ash. We in Oyrwyn were never much for boats, so we were exploring alliances, hiring warbands. I thought of everything.”

  He turned his face to the sun that shone on them and on the city, though without much heat. “Yet I never thought of the folk. It was a task, a game even. I counted the lives of my men, and yes, sometimes the enemy’s, but not—” He stopped, his jaw clenched, and shook his head.

  “It’d be the baron’s decision to put the lives of his folk between an army and his walls, or not,” Torvul said. “You didn’t make the rules,” he repeated.

  “That changes nothing. It is, and always was, despicable.” Allystaire practically bit the words as they passed his lips.

  “Time to make some new rules, then,” Idgen Marte said.

  They sat in silence for a moment, till Torvul spoke up. “I think we ought to discuss how we mean to get into the city, and out. You give me some time to work on it, I could make the both of you unrecognizable. I’m a peddler, you’re my guards. Sit still and let me do the talking.”

  “No.” Allystaire cut him off with a single syllable as implacable as the mountain range to the east.

  “Listen to sense, lad, you can’t just walk in to the city and announce yourself.”

  Allystaire turned to face him. “Torvul, you do not understand. I cannot do this.”

  “Now is not the time for your honor to rear up—”

  “Torvul. This is a condition the Mother has laid upon me. No lie may pass my lips. If a guard so much as asked my name, I would have to tell it to him.”

  The dwarf blinked in astonishment, taken aback by Allystaire’s answer. “You mean, no matter what question is put you, you must tell the truth?” He shook his head in slow, open-mouthed horror. “That is…I can’t imagine…” He put a hand to his forehead, paled. “I’m dizzy.”

  I can’t even tell if he’s joking, Allystaire thought, but said, “I have another way in. One that will not require a lie.”

  He reached inside one of his bracers and pulled out a crumpled parchment. “This is the letter the Choiron of Braech wrote to Rede, promising him recognition and aid in establishing a Temple of the Mother in Londray. I happen to think Londray could use a Temple of the Mother, and so much the better if it begins under our administration than his. What say you?”

  Idgen Marte laughed, and Torvul nodded admiringly. “Well, you’ve got sand. I’ll give you that. Say that gets us through the gate. What happens if word gets to the baron?
”

  Allystaire thought on the question for a moment, pursing his lips. Finally, he tapped one gauntleted hand on the pommel of the saddle and said, “His own sense of himself would demand a face-to-face talk. And if he wanted me dead he would try to do it himself, the right way. Well, the formal way. A challenge, seconds, the list, a herald to judge—all of it. Knowing him he would make a festival of it.”

  “And could he?”

  “Kill me?” Allystaire leaned back in his saddle. “It is a Delondeur tradition to undertake great errantries in youth. Go hunt gravekmir with the elves, for instance. Sail to Keersvast and lead a mercenary ship for a season or two. Lionel was no exception. He was deadly with a lance and as good a horseman who ever lived. They say he spitted a gravekmir through the throat at one pass. Yet that was a long time ago, and his swordsmanship always depended upon the edge, all grace and style and flourish.”

  “So? What’s all that mean?”

  “My swordsmanship depends upon the head of my hammer, and Delondeur is more than a score of years my elder. If it came to it, I would kill him.” Allystaire paused. “He might make me pay for it, but he would die.”

  “Are your sort allowed to bring hammers to duels?” Idgen Marte spoke up, shifting restlessly on her saddle.

  “If he issues the challenge, I may bring to it any weapon I wish.”

  “Not too sure o’yourself, are ya? Him being a Giantslayer and all.” Torvul leaned forward in the seat of his wagon, peering at Allystaire.

  “He killed a gravekmir with eight feet of good ash topped with a foot of steel, from horseback, in full charge. I killed a gravekling from my back with my empty hand, the rim of my shield, and my boot. I would say that makes us even.”

  “The Goddess was with you then,” Idgen Marte pointed out.

  “And She would not abandon me now if I fought him for the right reasons.” Allystaire gave his head a quick shake and frowned faintly. “Do not misunderstand me; I do not want to fight him. Lionel was…” He sighed, shook his head. “I thought, and still think, that he wanted to be a better man than most. That he tried; he cared for his men and his lands in much the same way the Old Baron did in Oyrwyn. I am less certain of that now. Yet I will not seek out a confrontation unless he forces it on me, or it becomes a necessary part of the Mother’s will.”

  “What if he knew—not suspected, not ignored, but knew—what was going on in Bend?”

  Allystaire’s frown darkened into a scowl. “Then I will kill him, if I have to take the Dunes apart stone by stone.” Then he gave his head a quick shake. “This is all irrelevant. We have to get in first. Come along already.”

  Torvul twitched his reins and started the wagon rolling again; Allystaire and Idgen Marte moved their mounts to either side of the wagon, on the very edges of the road. What had begun outside Grenthorpe as a dirt track had become something approaching a proper road, with a raised middle and a bed of stones that should’ve been more tightly packed, but were a considerable improvement over the mud, dust, and wheel-ruts of the dirt tracks.

  Though the city seemed to loom near, it still took the better part of a turn to join with the queue lining up outside its gates. While they had encountered little to no traffic, foot or mounted, excepting the occasional galloping message-rider, a number of folk in carts, horses, and on foot were gathered on the eastern mountain road. Merchants, farmers with goods to sell, and more than one young man or woman come to the great city of Londray from their own towns or villages or farms.

  They fell into line not far behind one such group. There was little mingling; as Idgen Marte stepped lightly off her mount, and Allystaire slid carefully off of Ardent’s saddle and landed with a heavy rattle of armor and a grunt, one of the youths in front of them cast a backward glance. The lad’s eyes widened as he took in their weapons, their armor, the size of the destrier. He turned back to his companions and there was quiet muttering, then the boy approached them.

  “Come for the armin’, m’lord?” He gestured to Allystaire’s lance and the pennant affixed. “I dunno yer sigil, but are y’lookin’ t’hire men-at-arms?”

  “Arming?” Allystaire’s eyes widened, and he felt Idgen Marte stiffen at his side.

  “Aye, m’lord! Baron Delondeur has put out the call fer volunteers, though he don’t say why. We think maybe he means t’launch a winter campaign to catch the bastards in Oyrwyn sleepin’, or they mean t’do the same t’us and he wants t’be on guard.”

  Allystaire turned to Idgen Marte with a frown, then back to the lad. “Well, as you can see, I am already armed.” He rapped a gauntleted knuckle against the head of his hammer. “And I am here on other business. If there is war here this fall or winter, I want no part of it.”

  “Wouldn’t y’want to earn glory, m’lord?” The lad’s cheeks were spotted with downy fuzz that matched the sandy color of his hair. “Set Oyrwyn cowards right?”

  Anger flashed in his mind but was quickly washed away with the thought he’d voiced to Garth not so long ago. If I have any friends left in Oyrwyn, I do not want them. He studied the lad a moment, as he turned back around, noting the thin knife on his belt, the old and soft boots, the way his wrists stuck out of the plain homespun tunic.

  “What is your name, lad?” Allystaire could hear Torvul’s repressed groan as soon as he spoke.

  The lad turned to face him. “Marcel, m’lord. Of Ennithstide.”

  Allystaire nodded faintly and approached him; he had almost a score of years on him, four inches of height and five stone in weight. “How do you expect to win glory, Marcel of Ennithstide?”

  “With the sword, m’lord, or the spear! I’ll kill enough Oyrwyn sons-of-whores to earn a place in the world—”

  Allystaire cut him off with a raised hand. “Have you ever held a sword? A spear? A bow?”

  “I’ve used my da’s bow for hunting…”

  “Oh? And where is it now?”

  “Back home.”

  “I see.” Allystaire sighed briefly. “Marcel, I have been at war, and seen war, longer than you or your friends have been alive. I know how it works; you will not be given swords or bows. Spears, mayhap, or halberds, but more likely daggers, a handful of javelins, and a leather jerkin that will no sooner stop a tree branch from scratching you than it will ease the blow of a sword. And in the field you will be run out ahead of the actual fighting men and told you are a skirmisher, or a scout. Mayhap a kern if the man in charge of you prefers. And the knight or bannerman who commands you will know that he has found the enemy when—from atop his mount—he sees you die.”

  Allystaire emphasized atop his mount with a finger jabbed into Marcel’s bony chest, and the lad quailed under the sudden anger in the paladin’s face, but Allystaire continued.

  “You will take an arrow—in the eye and straight into the brain if you are the luckiest of the lucky. In the neck is a good, quick way to go; I expect it burns and the choking panic is awful, but at least a man bleeds out fast that way. Mayhap you will live through your first fight, kill a man, even. And perhaps get a scratch from a dagger or take a javelin in the meat of the shoulder, no great wound, you think. And unless a veteran takes a moment to pour boiling wine into the wound for you that very instant, in the morning it will start to itch. And then next day it will be hot. And in three days time, perhaps five, perhaps a week, you will die in the screaming agony of wound-fever, shitting blood and losing your mind.”

  Marcel’s face blanched with fear, but still Allystaire went on.

  “If you are truly unlucky, you will survive almost an entire campaign. You will eat rotten food, march until your boots fall apart and your very clothes unravel, until your muscles scream to simply be allowed to lie down and die. You will watch your friends die and in your dreams you will see the faces of the men you kill. And then in some battle, a knight of Oyrwyn will ride straight over you. Or perhaps one of Delondeur’s knights, in his haste to jo
in the combat, will decide that the loss of a peasant kern is easier to bear than missing his chance at glory, and his horse’s hooves will crush your back, and if you do not die with the taste of your own innards in your mouth, then you will be sent home, a cripple, a legless wreck, to sit in the village tavern and be pitied just enough to be allowed to drink yourself into an early grave. Women will not line up to mount your cock and men will not sit at your elbow to hear your stories. They will not sing any songs or compose any tales in your honor. They will turn their faces away in shock, and shame, and fear.”

  Allystaire paused, and realized now that Torvul, Idgen Marte, and all the boys of Marcel’s group were staring at him in varying degrees of shock, fear, and wonder.

  “That is your glory, Marcel of Ennithstide. Were I you, I would go home and back to my father’s boat or my uncle’s farm or the village mill, or wherever it is you came from. And if men come waving the flag and promising the baron’s link and glory, remember what I said. If they press you into service, well, Marcel, there is not much you can do about that. But do not do the baron’s bloody work for him, eh?”

  With that, Allystaire turned away from Marcel and spat, walked back to Ardent, and patted the horse’s neck. Within a few moments he heard the clamor of many footsteps and felt the rush of half a dozen lads fleeing the gates of Londray as if fleeing the mouth of Cold itself.