by Dave Duncan
"As soon as Toggan got married, he wasn't a warrior anymore, but he was still one of the group. He slept with his wife and came around in the morning to get his makeup on. After the first fortnight, we saw a lot more of him than she ever did. Being a warrior just seemed like being in a boarding school. So I assumed. Until the war came."
"Followed you, did it?” Alice said. “Oh, sorry! I didn't mean—"
"No, this was a different war. The first I knew of it was when a priest turned up one evening, an elderly chap in a green robe. I smelled trouble right away. He sat down and negotiated with us. I suppose there were about sixty of us there, sitting around sharpening spears. We didn't stop because of him, either! He said that the temple had learned that the junior warrior age group had adopted a foreigner. Well, the whole village had known that for fortnights. He said that Krobidirkin was Sonalby's patron god, and the foreigner really ought to make a sacrifice to the god and ask for sanctuary—matter of protocol, you see.
That debate lasted all night. A lot of the fellows said the priests just wanted a free meal, but eventually the group decided that it was a good idea. I considered making a break for it, but Krobidirkin must have known about me all along anyway. Moreover, I could see that if I did a bunk, I would get my pals in trouble with the numen and probably with the elder groups. And I was curious.
I couldn't be expected to take part in an important ceremony without the backing of my peers, so the next afternoon the whole age group assembled. We bought a bullock from Gopaenum's uncle and drove it along to the temple.
There we were right on the node. The virtuality made my scalp prickle, as usual. There were shrines to Olfaan, and Wyseth—he's the sun god, and in that climate you don't ever forget the sun. And there was one to Paa Tion, the god of healing, and one to Emthaz, goddess of childbirth. The usual Pentatheon representation. But the temple was the center of the village, and it was Krobidirkin the Herder's.
It was one story high, made of leather and poles. If you can imagine a leather labyrinth, that's what it was. Smelly and hot. The others knew what to expect because they'd been there before, but all the way in I was shivering from the sanctity and thinking I would never find my way out again. The middle was open, a big courtyard: sand underfoot and the sky overhead. There was a paved place for making sacrifices. The priests were waiting eagerly, because they would have red meat for supper afterward. And there was a small, round tent in one corner. A yurt, I think they're called. That was the house of the god. If there was an image of him, it was in there. All we could see was the tent.
I was introduced as D'ward Roofer and put in the front. We all knelt down on the sand and bowed our heads and the ceremony began, chanting and praying and so on. In a few minutes I looked up. The flap of the tent had been pulled aside, and there was a little man standing there, holding it. He smiled at me and beckoned, and I knew that he was the numen himself, Krobidirkin. I could see no alternative, so I just stood up and walked over, and the priests did not notice. I was surprised they couldn't hear my knees knocking.
He took me inside, and the inside was much larger than the outside. There were several rooms to it, and flaps of the roof had been opened to let in the air and light. There were rugs and cushions. It smelled of spices. Someone was playing a zither or something softly in another room, and I could not hear the temple priests doing their awful wailing. It was exotic, but quite pleasant.
"Do sit down, Liberator,” he said. “I regret that I cannot offer you tea, but I have a reasonable substitute."
We settled on the cushions, and he poured from a silver pot that stood on a brazier. The cups were beautiful porcelain.
You can't tell how old a stranger is from his appearance. They have a sort of agelessness. Krobidirkin was small, as I said, but tough and wiry looking. He had the serenity of a landscape and could have been eighty, but he had the skin of a youth. He wore only the local leather loincloth, and his face was quite the ugliest I had ever seen, all slanty eyes and squashed nose. His ears stuck out, and his mustache turned down at the ends. He had a whimsical grin that I found reassuring.
It took me a minute or two to find my voice. This numen was a vassal of Karzon's, remember, and therefore an ally of Zath, the god of death, whom I was prophesied to kill and who had been doing his level best to kill me. I had met Tion and escaped unharmed, but he was not allied with the Chamber. This Krobidirkin must be. He had immolated Kalmak Carpenter and his family, and here he was offering me tea!
"I am honored to meet you, sir,” I said, or some such nonsense.
He chuckled. “No, the honor is mine. May I say that your father would be proud of you?"
I spilled half a cup of scalding tea down my chest.
"You knew my father, sir?"
The little man was much amused by my reaction. “Yes, indeed. I met him several times. A good man. He made a special journey all the way from his home world to consult with me. He even gave me a picture of you."
I think that was probably the biggest surprise I have ever had in my life. There I was, an infinite distance from home, a stranger in a very strange land indeed, and this all-powerful local god handed me a photograph of the station at Nyagatha! It showed the mater, and you, Alice, and me. We were sitting on the veranda. The gramophone was there, and the parrot's cage, and all sorts of details I had forgotten. I was about three, I suppose. I had never seen that picture before. I made rather an ass of myself over it.
Of course Krobidirkin was pleased, because that was the effect he had wanted to produce. He refilled my cup.
And then I said, “But surely this is impossible! I thought nothing could cross over except people?"
He chuckled, as if he had been waiting for me to work that out in my dim-witted way. “Memories can cross over,” he said. “And there is mana.” He took the photograph from me—it did seem to be a real, honest-to-god photograph, black-and-white, not colored—and he turned it over. I expected to see the photographer's name there, but it was blank. Then he waved his hand and the back showed another picture. It was the guv'nor, sitting in that very tent, where I was sitting, wearing a Nagian loincloth and smiling.
Well, that floored me.
"May I guess?” I said when I recovered. “He had been put in charge of some people who had once had a society very similar to the Nagians', and he knew that you had managed to preserve their institutions in the face of progress, so he came to ask your advice?"
Krobidirkin's ugly face split in a wide grin. “Of course! Unfortunately, it takes mana to guide such a development, and in the post he then held, Kameron was only another native. A culturally advanced native, and a well-intentioned one, but not a stranger in his own world."
"You have been a good father to your people, sir,” I said. “You also are from our world?"
He smiled and nodded. “A very long time ago, yes. I can recall very little of my youth, I am afraid. One forgets. A new world brings a new life, and the old days become unimportant when one decides one will never return. I do remember that my people were very warlike. We had a notable leader, named ... I forget. He led us against a civilization of great cities, and we were badly defeated. The next year he tried again, and this time he was turned aside by an army led by a priest. The mana was very strong, and he retreated before it, knowing that he could not win against the god power. He died not long after."
That may have been the second worst shock, I suppose. It is one thing to know intellectually that strangers live a long time. To run into a man who remembers battles fought fifteen hundred years ago—that brings it home with a vengeance. “Was his name Attila?” I asked.
The little Hun clapped his hands and said, “That's it! A wonderful leader of men! Great native charisma."
So we sat and talked about the battle of Châlons—which was fought sometime in the middle of the fifth century, in case you forget—and Pope Leo, who somehow persuaded the Huns to withdraw from Italy the following year. How he did it has always been a great historica
l mystery. My host was delighted to learn that his comrades in arms were still remembered after so long, but I was careful not to go into details about their reputation. He probably wouldn't have minded. Krobidirkin had been a sort of medicine man with the horde, and in his old age he had accidentally crossed over to Nextdoor and become a god.
He soon eased the conversation around to the Filoby Testament and the Liberator.
"I greatly regret what happened to the carpenter and his family,” he said. “I had direct orders, and I dared not disobey them. One hates to treat one's people so, however misguided their heresies."
"And what of me?” I asked. “Have you direct orders about me?"
"Oh, yes. But you are the son of my old friend Kameron! Zath does not know where you are. He does not know that I know, and he is furious that you have escaped him. He is a very frightened god!"
"He need not be,” I said. “I have no plans to kill him."
The little man chortled. “The prophecy says you will! Zath has tried everything he can think of to break the chain of events and failed every time. So he fears you, and rightly so."
"What of Karzon?"
He screwed up his ugly little face, making it even uglier. “He fears Zath! And that brings me to the reason I invited you here, D'ward. Zath has decreed that there must be war, and more war. War brings him mana, and he is hungry for all the mana he can get, because the Liberator is a threat to him. Now it has begun—in Narshia, which was part of Joaldom, but lies between Thargvale and Lappinvale. Lappinvale has been a Thargian colony for half a century, you know? But recently the Randorians have been stirring up trouble there, urging rebellion and independence."
He looked expectantly at me and I nodded as if it all made sense. I was actually thinking that it didn't, but it still sounded less insane than all Europe exploding over the death of one Austrian nobleman.
Krobidirkin chuckled. “Thargians dislike being inconvenienced or worried by uncertainty. They had been trying to subvert the Narshian government for years, and this summer they ran out of patience. They invaded Narshland. The Joalians plot reprisal.” He sighed. “It will be bloody, I fear, and Zath will benefit greatly."
As you may guess, I was not very happy to hear this. “What has it got to do with me?"
He smiled cryptically. “The Joalians plan a lightning raid on Tharg itself, while the Thargian army is absent—that is exceedingly brave of them! To reach Thargvale, they must cross both Nagvale and Lemodvale. Lemodia is part of Thargdom, but we belong to Joal. Our queen is a Joalian puppet. Their vanguard is already here, in Nag, demanding her help. She will muster her warriors as they demand."
I felt ill, and the more I thought about it, the more ill I got.
"I must give myself up!” I said. I probably didn't mean that, of course. It was just the first thing that came into my head.
Krobidirkin looked shocked. “Oh, no! That will not help at all! The war is inevitable now. No, I wish to ask a favor."
"Sir ... ask!” I owed him my life, remember. He had given me sanctuary, even if I had not realized it until then.
He nodded, well pleased. Numens usually get their own way.
"The summons will arrive soon. I knew you would be tempted to leave. This is not your cause, after all—or at least, you would not have thought it so, had I not invited you here and told you. The Joalians will require each village contingent to have a leader. Nagians prefer to debate and argue, but they do appoint leaders in time of war. In this case they will have to. There is no question whom the Sonalby contingent will choose."
I could not argue with that, because I knew they reacted to my stranger's charisma no matter how much I tried to hide it. “I know little of war, especially this sort of war."
"It is not necessary that you do. The Joalian generals will provide all the skill needed to spill all the blood possible. And I think you would have been my boys’ choice even had you not been a stranger.” That was just flattery, of course.
"What do you want of me?” I asked gloomily.
"Stay and lead them, D'ward! With you at their head, they will not suffer quite so much. More of them will return to their homeland. Believe me, this is so. You will ease the suffering and reduce the deaths. I fear for my people if their young men are dragged into this without your guidance."
What could I say to that?
I hedged at first. “I was hoping to find the Service and enlist their help in going Home."
He scowled and tugged at his droopy mustache. “Beware the Service, D'ward! They will betray you—it is foretold."
Everyone seemed to have read that damnable Filoby Testament but me! In the end I agreed to accept the leadership of the warriors. One cannot easily refuse a numen, and he had obviously kept my presence in Nagland a secret from Zath. He had probably taken quite a risk doing that. Although he did not labor the point, I knew I was in his debt.
"Your presence honors my humble tent,” he said then. “I would be happy to keep you here and talk. I should have invited you before, but it is not safe for either of us. Zath suspects me, and he is far stronger than any of us."
It was dismissal. We rose. He offered to give me the picture. I was sorely tempted, but I had no pockets. Reluctantly I declined it, and promised that one day I would come back, after the war. He showed me to the door. The priests were still at their work, and they did not see me return to my place.
That was the third time I had met a god. He was a true father to his people, the most impressive of the three by far. And he had been one of Attila's Huns! In my innocence, I thought that very wonderful.
Much of what he had told me was true, actually. I later confirmed that the guv'nor did make a flying visit to Nextdoor in August of ninety-nine, and he did go to Nagland. The picture may well have been what Krobidirkin said it was, although he could just have pulled all the images out of my memories as easily as out of the guv'nor's. What the Herder was really doing was playing the Great Game. By enlisting the Liberator in the war, he had made a very cunning move—from his point of view, at least.
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14
SMEDLEY AWOKE WITH A START. THAT TIME HE HAD REALLY BEEN asleep. The car was doing its coughing and stuttering again. He peered out the window and saw buildings, darkened shops. The blackened street-lights threw tiny puddles of brightness; here and there another vehicle showed or a chink of window high up.
"Where are we?"
"Greenwich,” Alice said.
London! They must be safe now!
The car choked, slowed, and then picked up again.
"Does anyone know anything about the workings of these infernal contraptions?” Ginger demanded.
Alice and Exeter said, “No,” simultaneously.
"A little,” Smedley said. “Have we any tools on board?"
"No,” said Ginger.
"Is it short of petrol?"
"No."
That settled that, then. Nothing to be done.
London never slept, but it was pretty drowsy out in the suburbs at this time in the morning. There were no traffic policemen at the intersections, but usually Ginger had the right-of-way. He was driving quite slowly. The old boy must be completely exhausted.
Smedley's leg throbbed. So did his missing hand. Perhaps in time he would discover that this was a sign of rain or thunder or something.
Exeter had refused to talk any more, claiming he was hoarse. He had demanded to know more about the war, about what this Lawrence character was up to in Palestine, about zeppelins and poison gas, and what sort of allies the Italians and Japanese were. Alice had talked for a while. Smedley had stayed out of it, and started nodding off.
"Somebody talk!” Ginger said. “I'm getting sleepy."
Smedley roused himself. “So that's what you've been doing these last three years? Fighting with spears?"
Exeter sighed. “Not all of it, no. But some. I knew there had been an out-of-valley campaign about twenty years ago. As soon as we l
eft Krobi-dirkin's temple, I went off to talk to the fathers at their clubhouse. The whites, we called them, because Visek's—doesn't matter. That evening I brought a couple of them to the barracks and got them to tell us about it. I said I'd had an inspiration in the temple. Everyone assumed it was a message from the god, which was perfectly true.
"They told us how the Joalians had made them march in rows, and I suggested we practice that. There was a lot of grumbling, but I could always get my way when I wanted, being a stranger. A couple of days later the queen's envoy arrived in Sonalby. He went to the senior warriors and eventually they summoned us. We marched up in a phalanx and their eyes just about popped out of their heads."
Alice chuckled, although it sounded forced. “So you were elected general?"
"Of course. My group all voted for me, and we outnumbered the seniors. Half of them were married and didn't count—married men stay home as defensive reserves. We roped in a few of the big ones from the cadet class. In a day or two we set off for Nag, about a hundred of us."
The car coughed, coughed, coughed. It faded to a stop, then suddenly lurched forward. Everyone breathed again.
"Keep talking!” Alice said.
"Lordie! I'm sure you don't want to hear all that. Nag is a fair-sized city by Vales standards. Not like Joal or Tharg, of course, about the size of Suss. We'd call it a modest market town. That was where I met the heir apparent, Prince Goldfish."
"You are making that up!"
"No. Cross my heart! Well, it was pronounced more like ‘Golbfish,’ but I always thought of him as Goldfish. He was the queen's oldest son and his name was Golbfish Hordeleader. He was in his late twenties, I suppose, and one of the tallest, biggest men in Nagland. He was rich, had three gorgeous concubines, and he was heir to the throne. What more can a man want?"
"To play the mouth organ?” Smedley said grumpily.