Present Tense [Round Two of The Great Game]

by Dave Duncan

  "I can doubt their sanity. Did you find the conclusion at all surprising?"

  "Astonishing!” It would be more truthful to call the conclusion deeply disappointing. Some blood would be more exciting than others. “I never suspected my brother of such patriotism."

  Without even looking, Tarion could sense the smirk on Bondvaan's suety face. Oh, he must be pleased! The Joalians still had a second string to their bow in Nag.

  "That was not quite what I ... Ah!” Kammaeman gestured for Tarion and Kolgan to step aside. “Here comes the man I want to see."

  Tarion watched with interest as the guards confiscated the new arrival's spear. He was a fairly typical Nagian—black haired, slender, and tall; taller than most. Still bearing his shield, he marched up to the commander and slapped a palm on it in salute. Then he stood stiffly at attention, staring over the commander's helmet. His grotesque face paint made his expression almost unreadable.

  Having seen him earlier only at a distance, Tarion had not realized how young he was. He felt a stir of interest. A straight diet of Dosh Houseboy would soon pall. If rank did not suffice, a few coppers would seem like a fortune to such a peasant.

  "Your name?” Kammaeman demanded, looking the youth up and down, mostly up.

  "D'ward Troopleader, sir."

  "And before that?"

  "D'ward Roofer."

  "From Sonalby?"

  "Yes, sir.” He had a faint accent that Tarion could not place. He was showing no signs of nervousness, which was exceedingly curious.

  "I ordered you to bring your new recruit with you."

  The young man did not look down. “With respect, sir, my oath was made to another, who then transferred it to you. I take orders only from you directly."

  Kammaeman's face reddened under the dust. His hairy fists clenched.

  "If you order me to go and fetch him now, sir,” the youth told the tent in the background, “then of course I shall obey."

  "That is exceedingly kind of you!"

  Tarion detected a suitable moment to win the boy's gratitude. “If I may speak, Battlemaster? Technically he is correct. That is the way things stand at the moment. He cannot be expected to understand proper military procedures."

  The youth glanced briefly at the speaker and Tarion saw with astonishment that he had brilliantly blue eyes. How bizarre! How very intriguing!

  And why was he not quaking in his shoes—apart from the fact that he was barefoot, of course? This lad must definitely be investigated more closely. Nasty, fat old Bondvaan had obviously had the same idea. He was almost slobbering on his stool.

  "I see!” Kammaeman growled, mollified. “Well, I can't have a dozen troopleaders pestering me all day. I have to appoint an overall commander for the Nagian infantry, do I? Someone responsible to me?"

  Tarion opened his mouth and then hastily closed it. The question had been directed to the peasant.

  "As I understand, sir, there are no precedents. No hordeleader has ever resigned before."

  He was not speaking like an ignorant rustic. He was quite right, though, and Kammaeman's proposal was the only possible solution. Tarion had carefully not mentioned the problem earlier, but he was prepared to undertake the additional responsibilities if they were offered. Then he would command the entire Nagian army. He did not say so yet, for Kammaeman was still intent on the youngster.

  "What military experience do you have?"

  "None, sir."

  "Who taught your squad to drill?"

  "I did, sir. I asked some of the elders in the village how Joalians made war.” He was showing no pride or satisfaction or ... or anything! He was as impassive as a veteran of innumerable campaigns. His confidence was positively eerie. Tarion wondered if Kammaeman might order him flogged, just on principle. But there was nothing in the boy's manner to indicate insubordination or hidden mockery. He was being completely factual, and his manner carried conviction.

  "How long did it take you?"

  "Two days, sir, was all I had—I do have a request, sir."

  "Yes?"

  "I have nothing more to teach them. If you could send us a Joalian instructor, he could further their training."

  Kammaeman snorted disbelievingly. “It has been tried before! Nagian warriors insist on fighting in their traditional fashion. They will not listen to a Joalian."

  "They will listen if I tell them to, sir."

  At Tarion's side, Kolgan Coadjutant chuckled. Kammaeman shot him a glance that silenced him, and then looked back to D'ward. Up to D'ward.

  "Give me your oath on that, subject to a flogging if you are wrong."

  "I so swear,” the boy said at once, still staring over his head.

  Tarion felt a stab of alarm. What was going on here? Was the old rogue going to take the word of a raw laborer? He glanced at Kolgan and saw a scowl that mirrored his own feelings exactly.

  Kammaeman said, “Kneel."

  The boy knelt. That put their eyes on the same level.

  "So you can make them march in step,” the commander said. “I admit that. I admit that I am surprised by that. But how do you make them remember that spears are for thrusting? In the heat of battle, they will throw their spears away! They always have in the past."

  "I was planning to tie the poles to their wrists with leather thongs,” D'ward said simply, “to remind them."

  "Indeed?” Kammaeman raised those jungly eyebrows. He was obviously impressed. “How long would it take you to train the rest of the Nagian contingents to the same standard you have brought Sonalby's?"

  Even the youth looked startled, but he barely hesitated. “I can talk to them this evening, sir. If you will assign a Joalian instructor to each troop in the morning, I will guarantee that they will obey him and do their best."

  The battlemaster scratched his beard. “On the same penalty? No, I'll raise the stakes. Make that two floggings."

  The boy grinned. “Done!"

  "By the five gods, lad, you're either crazy or just insane! Your new recruit? What is he doing now?"

  "Digging a latrine ditch, sir."

  Tarion exploded. Oh, joy! Oh, perfection!

  Kammaeman shot him a disapproving glare, but he was having trouble hiding his own amusement. “Why that?"

  The boy seemed surprised, as if the answer were obvious. “I told him that was the worst job I could give him. Once he has done that, then he has nothing more to fear."

  The Joalians exchanged glances. Old Bondvaan ran soft fingers through his skimpy silver hair. Kolgan was chewing his lip thoughtfully. Kammaeman seemed to be at a loss. “Did your group accept him?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Oh? What did you tell them?"

  "I said we were very honored to have the prince enlist with us. That they need not show him any special favor, but they should try to be patient with him, because he has had a deprived upbringing and has everything to learn about true manhood."

  This time even the commander grinned. He turned to Kolgan.

  "Well, Coadjutant? Do we have a native military genius here?"

  "He appears to have flair, sir."

  "Stand up!” Kammaeman said, heaving himself to his feet. Even in his boots and helmet, he was shorter than the boy, but twice as wide. “Take good care of him!"

  "Yes, sir."

  "We don't want him to have any accidents—do we, Cavalryleader?” He favored Tarion with a threatening glare.

  "I hope my brother survives to dig many, many latrine ditches, sir,” Tarion said crossly. If the Nagian rabble was to be turned into an effective fighting force, he could no longer count on Golbfish dying in the customary massacre. How annoying!

  Kammaeman thrust out a hairy arm and grasped the youth's brown shoulder.

  "I shall make you a wager! D'ward Troopleader, I appoint you acting commander of the Nagian infantry. Any instructors you need, just ask this man. His name is Kolgan Coadjutant. Three days from now, you will parade your horde for me. I shall then either confirm your appointment or
have you beaten to jelly. Do you accept those terms?"

  "Yes, sir,” the youth said calmly. “Thank you, sir."

  "My pleasure! Dismissed."

  With a smart salute, the new troopleader spun around and marched away. The guards gave him back his spear.

  Kammaeman watched him go and then turned to his deputy with the sleepy content of a bearcat that has just eaten a band of hunters. “You are dismissed also. Give him the best men you can, all the help you can. You two gentlemen wait a moment."

  Kolgan flickered anger, but he saluted and marched away.

  Tarion moved forward. Bondvaan rose, looking completely perplexed. Tarion hoped his own face did not show his fury. That young upstart was doomed!

  "You two gentlemen,” Kammaeman repeated as soon as Kolgan was out of earshot, “were both making slobbering spectacles of yourself. Keep your filthy habits to yourselves, do you understand? Leave D'ward alone!"

  "Sir!” Tarion protested. “I don't underst—"

  "You understand perfectly! He is not to be molested in any way. Any way! I think I may have found a secret weapon in this war."

  Tarion decided he had better make some new plans.

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  22

  HIS FIRST FEW DAYS IN THE INFANTRY WERE CONTINUOUS TORMENT for Golbfish. Going without shoes, he shredded the soles of his feet; his skin blistered in the sun; his ritual cut suppurated. The sheer physical exertion was worse than all of those. He dug ditches, he marched, he ran. Every muscle in his carcass throbbed and ached. He fainted and was kicked awake and told to stop slacking. Time and again he came to the breaking point, when even death seemed preferable to this unending torture.

  But whenever that happened, by some curious coincidence, he would look up to see a pair of steady blue eyes watching him. He would hear a few words of encouragement and recall that this youth had saved him in the temple at no small risk to himself. Somehow, then, Golbfish would find the strength to struggle on a little longer. He owed it to D'ward, who had trusted him.

  He fully expected one of Tarion's assassins to come calling on him with a thin dagger, but that never happened. He awoke every morning, never quite sure whether to be surprised or disappointed. And by the fifth or sixth day, he realized that he was going to live through this and be a warrior. Even more astonishing, he came to understand that his rough companions were sympathetic to his sufferings and approved of his efforts. Then a thin sliver of pride began to glow in the darkness.

  Just when he had begun to cope with life in camp, the army moved out, almost seven thousand strong. About a quarter were Nagians, a thousand on foot and eight hundred riding moas. Their road took them east, past Sonalby, and then south into the wilds of Siopass. For three days they made a cautious ascent of the winding valley, through dripping forest and along stony watercourses. The march brought Golbfish new impossibilities of fatigue and hardship.

  It also brought danger, for every military campaign in the Vales inevitably began with a contested pass. The Lemodians could not but know that the combined might of Joalland and Nagland was coming against them. Already they must have reinforced their defenses and called for help from their fearsome Thargian masters. There were very few places where an army could cross the ranges.

  Fortunately, there had not been time for Tharg's assistance to arrive. The battle was fought long before the Nagian contingent reached the summit. Word was sent back down the line that the pass was cleared and Lemodvale lay open before the invaders. Then the warriors cheered and sang songs as they marched. Golbfish saw the bodies as he stumbled past, but he was not involved in the fighting. He had no breath for singing, and he did not know the words of those songs anyway.

  Thereafter the road led downward and the pace quickened. Two days later, the army camped by a shallow lake in the foothills of Lemodslope. The talk now was all of conquest and the joys of loot. The warriors assured one another that Lemodian girls were famous for their beauty.

  Eventually the Sonalby troop received its turn to bathe in the now very muddy lake. The warriors stashed their arms, but did not bother to strip. They charged into the water with whoops and set about making it even muddier. Golbfish avoided the horseplay, but he enjoyed the soak and the chance to reduce his personal population of vermin. What small things could please him now!

  He limped out to dry off in the sun. A gangly young man was sitting on the grass, leaning his head and arms on his bony knees, his bright blue eyes watching Golbfish with amusement. He must have been in the water also, for his hair and beard were wet.

  "Congratulations, warrior!” he said. “You've done it, haven't you?"

  "I think you deserve most of the credit, sir.” One thing Golbfish had certainly learned, and that was humility. He knew he could not have managed without D'ward's help and inspiration.

  "Nonsense! Sit down here and relax a minute. I said I could show you how, but you did it.” D'ward chuckled, shaking his head at Golbfish's tattered appearance. “You just need to grow a new skin and you'll be done. How do you feel?"

  Golbfish considered the question. It seemed like centuries since he had held a real conversation with anyone—meaning anyone with intelligence. “Surprised, mostly."

  "But proud?"

  "Yes,” the new warrior confessed. “I wouldn't have believed that a fortnight ago—but, yes."

  "You should be proud. Even the men are proud of you, you know! They were laying bets on how long you'd last. Nobody won—or rather you won! They admire courage. Anything you need?"

  Golbfish smiled, and it was a long time since he'd done that, too. “Ymma or Uthinima or Osmialth."

  The blue eyes blinked. “Who?"

  "My concubines."

  D'ward laughed. “You are better, aren't you! Sorry, I can't help there. Well, I just thought I'd congratulate you and tell you how much I admire what you've achieved. It would have broken most men. Well done!"

  He moved as if about to rise.

  "Sir?"

  The hordeleader settled back with a wary look. “Yes?"

  "May I ask ... No. May I make an observation?"

  "Observe away."

  Golbfish turned his head to watch the splashing mob in the lake. “This is impertinent and rash of me, but I have overheard enough to know that you are not a native of Sonalby."

  There was no reaction, just a terrible stillness that was more eloquent than a scream or a string of oaths.

  "Sir! ... I am sorry...."

  "I'm not originally from Sonalby, no,” D'ward said, very quietly. “The Joalians don't know that, though. At least, I didn't tell them, and I don't think they know. Carry on."

  "No. I should not have—"

  "Carry on!"

  "Sir!” Why had he been such a fool as to bring this up? “You arrived there in early summer. I suspect it was soon after the seven hundredth Festival of Tion, in Suss."

  There was a long pause, and then the young man said, “Who says so?"

  "Nobody. I worked it out. Very few of the lads can read. If they have ever heard of the Filoby Testament, they certainly know none of the details."

  D'ward sighed. “But you do, of course. What details do you have in mind?"

  "Oh ... just that it implies the Liberator will be born then, but that isn't what it actually says. It actually says that he will come into the world naked and crying. Not quite the same thing!"

  The piercing blue eyes raked the prince's face, then suddenly began to twinkle. “How else does one come into the world?” D'ward demanded with a grin that washed away the guilt and tension.

  "Well...” Golbfish felt a twinge of nostalgia, remembering table talk in Joal, the long philosophical debates when every word must be combed for subtleties of meaning. He gazed for a moment at the peasants roistering in the water. “Those who enter convents or monasteries are said to leave the world. So I suppose a man who was, say, evicted from a monastery might be said to enter the world again?"

  "You believe that is what
is meant?"

  "Perhaps. Or there may be an arcane meaning. Other references suggest that the Liberator is something other than a normal man."

  "Are you trying to blackmail me?"

  Golbfish looked around in horror, momentarily speechless. Even worse than the suggestion itself was the realization that a fortnight ago he probably would have been thinking that way. “You? When I owe you my life?"

  His companion smiled again. “Sorry! I must have been consorting with that blackguard brother of yours too much. You don't really owe me anything, you know—but carry on."

  "Nothing! I wish I hadn't mentioned it."

  "Have you discussed this with anyone else?"

  "No, sir! Sir ... you can trust me!” Golbfish was suddenly seized with a need to weep. Why had he ever blabbed all this out?

  "You are implying that I am something other than a mortal man?"

  "I think you have powers that others do not."

  D'ward said, “Damn!” and studied his toes.

  "Are you a god?” Golbfish asked nervously.

  "I'm definitely human. I am probably the man mentioned in the Testament, though. Shrewd of you to work that out.” He sighed. “I don't know if I shall ever be the Liberator. I have no ambitions to be any sort of liberator. I just want to go home! Will you keep this to yourself, please?"

  "Of course. I swear it."

  Obviously D'ward did not want to talk about the prophecies, which was a pity, because Golbfish did. The Filoby Testament never mentioned Nagland, so he had never paid much heed to it. It did mention a prince. About half the Vales were monarchies, so there must be many princes around, but he and Tarion were certainly the only princes available at the moment.

  The blue eyes were smiling again, and D'ward unrolled, stretching his bony form out on the grass. “I trust you! So let me ask you something. The day I arrived in Sonalby, I saw a family murdered by a mob."

  Golbfish shuddered. “Led by Karzon's priests? It happened all over the vale."

  "Because they were heretics?"