Present Tense [Round Two of The Great Game]

by Dave Duncan

  "Dosh Envoy!” he called, and then he sat down on the pile of planks.

  Dosh stalked forward expectantly. Only Kolgan and Golbfish remained.

  "Battlemaster?"

  The Liberator was hunched over and silent. He raised his head with what seemed a great effort, and Dosh was shocked to see the change in him. The vibrant war leader of a moment ago had disappeared. D'ward was only a haggard, exhausted boy, as if he had been drained of strength.

  Kolgan frowned, seeming as puzzled as Dosh was. “Something wrong, sir?"

  "Just tired."

  Was rhetoric such an effort? True, he had roused almost thirty men to wild enthusiasm, every one of them older than he. Some of them had been twice his age and far more experienced in warfare. He had inspired them to rush out and attempt the impossible, knowing that many of them were going to their deaths. It had been an amazing performance, but why had it left him looking like a corpse?

  He smiled weakly at Kolgan, and then at Golbfish. “Thank you for keeping silent there. You have questions too, I know."

  Kolgan laughed harshly. “I do. No women, no cavalry, no pack animals? Just a bunch of men on the run? What happens in Thargvale, if we ever get that far?"

  A spark of blue fire returned to D'ward's eyes. “I don't know. Do you want to come with us to see, or would you rather stay behind?"

  The big man recoiled. “I beg your pardon, sir. It is a bold inspiration! Of course I support you."

  D'ward grunted. “Hordeleader?"

  Golbfish said, “Did your reading tell you that the river can be forded here at Lemodvale?"

  "No. It sort of implied that no one had ever been crazy enough to try it."

  The prince's big, suety face split in a grin. “Then by the five gods, I should love to see those Thargian faces when they discover we've gone!"

  D'ward chuckled. He rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger. “You two go and reconnoiter the best routes. I'll meet you on the battlements by the clock tower steps in an hour."

  The two deputies saluted.

  "Wait!” D'ward licked his lips. “One last thing before you leave. There's some rope over there.” He pointed at Dosh. “Tie this man up."

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  33

  KOLGAN COADJUTANT AND GOLBFISH HORDELEADER HURRIED OVER to the door and departed. Dosh sat in dread stillness, his wrists and ankles bound to a chair. Fear churned in his belly, making him nauseous.

  D'ward was hunched over again, head in hands. After a long moment he looked up and forced a smile.

  "Relax!” he whispered. “I'm not Tarion."

  Of course he was not Tarion, but the memories were terrifying. “What are you going to do with me?” Dosh was ashamed to hear the quaver in his voice. “You won't leave me for the Thargians?"

  "No! No, of course not!” The Liberator straightened up wearily. “I just don't want you rushing off to the shrine to report to Tion. That's what you would have done, isn't it?"

  Dosh fumbled for words that would not come. “But ... but, Battlemaster! Surely you don't think you can keep a god from knowing what's happening?"

  "Yes, I do. Yes, I can, for a while anyway.” He smiled thinly. “I know more about gods than you do, my lad! Why does Tion need you to report to him if the gods already know everything, mm? I don't think he would tip off the enemy, but one never knows. You won't be hurt if you behave."

  He heaved himself to his feet and walked over to the stairs. He disappeared up them, moving like an old man.

  Dosh strained at his bonds, with no success. He could probably trust D'ward's promise not to leave him behind, but he was still determined to escape. His master's orders gnawed at him, compelling him to rush to the shrine and report this new development. And just being tied up was a torment in itself.

  He glanced around the shop. There must be something.... Yes, there had been a pile of scrap iron lying in the corner where he had sat during the meeting. If he pushed with his feet, he could tip the chair over backward. Then he would break his arms or wrists. Try something else.

  If he could somehow tip himself forward to put his weight on his feet, then he might manage to shuffle across the room like a snail carrying its shell. He had been left some movement in his shoulders, so if he tipped the chair back a little with his toes, then threw his weight forward, he might manage to rock it enough to—

  A voice said, “Stop that."

  He stopped.

  A girl was standing over him with a balk of timber in her hands.

  "Hit him on the head hard enough to dent a cooking pot—that's what D'ward told me to do."

  "Would you?” he asked.

  "Yes."

  "Then I'd better behave myself, I suppose.” He had not met Ysian more than two or three times, had not exchanged a dozen words with her. Anguan alone took a lot of satisfying and for variety there had been other playmates around much safer than Ysian Applepicker—D'ward's mistress had been off-limits.

  There was something different about her ... her hair. She had gorgeous dark auburn hair, which she had worn in a thick pile on top of her head. He had often wondered how she would look with it hanging loose and no clothes on, and how it would feel to play with. Now she had cut it short. Criminal! It made her look even younger. It made her look boyish, for she was short and thin. Her nose was small and peppered with freckles. She wore a long dress of some dark material, a shadow in the fading light of evening. He could make out a tightness to her jaw, and he decided she was capable of carrying out her threat. The glint in her eye suggested that she might even enjoy doing so. Definitely boyish.

  "Pull up a chair,” he said. “I won't run away."

  Ysian thought for a moment solemnly, then sat down on the pile of planks D'ward had used, watching Dosh fixedly and still holding the club.

  "We may be here some time,” he said.

  "I expect so."

  "Tell me about yourself."

  She kept her eyes on him like an agate idol. “What is there to say? This was my home. When D'ward took it over, I came with it."

  "What happened to your family?"

  For a long moment she did not answer, but when she spoke her voice was unchanged. “My aunt and uncle are out there in the woods somewhere. My cousin died in the battle."

  D'ward had been right, as usual. The guerrillas had been keeping the women in town informed; the women who had fallen in love with their masters had passed them the news. It was inevitable that Ysian would be one of those traitors. The Liberator's charm could melt warriors twice his age. A juvenile mistress would not have a chance.

  "I am sorry,” Dosh said. “Truly, I am! I did not start this war. I am not even a warrior."

  "I know. You were the other prince's plaything."

  He withheld the obvious retort that she was D'ward's. “You are wellinformed."

  "We women gossip."

  That might be humor or cynicism, he could not tell. How much of his life story had he told to Anguan, and how much had she babbled to the women of Lemod? Ysian's features had not changed expression since she arrived. She was only a kid, but he sensed he was matching wits with a very shrewd woman.

  "What else do you know about me?"

  "That you are a liar."

  "All men are liars!"

  She did not reply. Admittedly his position put him at a considerable disadvantage, but he was annoyed that she was besting him in the conversation.

  "I have never lied to D'ward."

  "Yes, you have!” She glared. “He asked you to find him a copy of the Filoby Testament, and you told him there were none in the town. I know there were. You threw them in the river."

  "That is not true!"

  "I saw you. I followed you."

  He gritted his teeth. “Does he believe that?"

  "I told him about the books, but it was too late. You had found them all. He said he was not surprised. He said you had been sent to spy on him and that was why you had taken service with the prince, back last
summer. He said there is a prophecy about him and a prince and you never mentioned it to him, so he knows you are not to be trusted. He thinks you are one of those people who cannot help lying all the time."

  That was probably true. Telling the truth always seemed sort of risky. Still, lying was probably just a habit. He was as loyal to D'ward as his other loyalty permitted—but he could not explain that.

  "You told D'ward about Moggpass."

  She did not deny it, just sat and watched him as if he were a cake on a griddle.

  "If he cannot trust me, how can he ever trust you? You betrayed your people to the leader of the army that killed your cousin. Why? What sort of woman does that?"

  "He knows he can trust me."

  Dosh snorted. “But you cannot trust him!"

  "I trust him absolutely.” Her confidence was stupidly childlike and infuriatingly unshakable. He felt a sudden urge to crack it, to hurt.

  "He took the city! He slew your family! And you think you can trust him? What madness is that? He is going to leave you tonight! What will your own people do to those who have aided the enemy?"

  "I am coming with you tonight. I shall be your guide."

  "He told the troopleaders that none of the women would come."

  "Except me."

  "He will not take his own woman and make his men leave theirs. He is not that sort of leader!” Why else had she cut her hair off, though?

  Ysian shrugged—the first gesture he had seen from her. “I was raised on the south bank. I know Moggpass. I can help."

  "He is lying to you, you know."

  "No!"

  Aha! Now the tinder was starting to smoke.

  He sighed with great sadness. “Women in love are rarely reliable judges of character, Ysian Applepicker."

  She bared her teeth at him. He chuckled, imagining her as wrestling partner. Usually he preferred boys tough and girls tender, but he would relish a sharp tussle with this firecub.

  "What makes you think I am in love, Dosh Envoy?” she demanded.

  "Ha! He is the Liberator. No one can refuse that man! I just watched him twist thirty warriors to the shape he wanted, all at the same time. Even I really do try to please him, as much as I can. No woman could resist him for a moment!"

  Ysian tossed her head, perhaps forgetting that she had cut her hair. “You are jealous of me, Houseboy! Jealous because I live with D'ward!"

  He flinched at the use of his former name, then sudden inspiration....

  "Why are you laughing?” she shouted.

  "I don't need to be jealous of you, girl! Do I? Nothing to be jealous of!"

  She blushed furiously, confirming his guess. She really did look ready to club him, and for some reason that made him laugh even harder.

  "We have more in common than I thought!” he taunted. “There's another way to win a woman's loyalty, isn't there?"

  Only D'ward would have thought of that, or been capable of it.

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  34

  GOLBFISH STOOD AT KOLGAN'S SIDE ON THE BATTLEMENTS, STARING down at the river. He felt ashamed of himself. The flow was half what it had been when he first came to Lemod, and he had never noticed the change. Beaches of shingle fringed both banks; ledges and boulders dispersed the channel; tree trunks and ice flows bridged some of the narrower gaps. An agile man could certainly work his way to the middle. Beyond that, the widest, fastest stretch ... well, that was what friends were for.

  The sides of the gorge were vertical in places, and not much less than vertical everywhere else. He wondered who stood in the woods on the far side, watching the city.

  He spoke for the first time since leaving Wagonmaker's. “By the five gods, he's right again! It is a way out, and the only way! He saw it and we did not."

  Kolgan growled. “I wish I knew how he does that."

  Golbfish had asked the Liberator that question once, but the answer had been something about a temple of learning somewhere, and he had not understood. “Where will you try?"

  "Down there looks good,” the Joalian said, “but how could we get to it?"

  They paced the parapet for an hour, until each had chosen a point of attack. The Nagians would try downstream, the Joalians upstream. The leaders would have to guide their men across by memory.

  "Think we can do it?” Golbfish asked glumly.

  "Cross? Some of us, yes.” The tall man glared across at the far cliffs and tugged at his red beard. “But to invade Thargvale with no cavalry, with very little surprise, with a larger army already in the field and able to cut our line of retreat ... You know this is madness?"

  The alternative was worse.

  "Have you ever been to Thargland?"

  Kolgan shrugged. “Once. As a youth, I accompanied an uncle of mine on an embassy to Tharg. I was not impressed."

  "You are a Joalian. You would not be impressed by a Thargian shitting gold bars."

  "I would certainly have them appraised by a competent minter."

  Golbfish chuckled, but it was a social chuckle, and false. “Tonight the river. Tomorrow the guerrillas, the forest, and the pass. We must take life one day at a time now and be grateful for it."

  "Aye!” Kolgan said sourly. “And even if we fight our way home, Your Majesty, our troubles will not be over. Your brother will be well established on your throne now, with an army of his own, and my foes in the Clique will have drawn up detailed plans for my funeral."

  This would not do. Leaders must maintain their own morale if they were to maintain their troops'. Golbfish squared his shoulders—as much as his shoulders would ever square.

  "Look on the bright side. However it began, this is no longer a squalid territorial squabble. We are caught up in the affairs of gods. Many things are prophesied of the Liberator, some clear and some obscure. Many things are likewise prophesied for a man named D'ward, and now we know that D'ward and the Liberator are the same. The most famous of the prophesies is that the Liberator will bring death to Death. If you wanted to find Death, Kolgan Coadjutant, where would you go looking?"

  Kolgan raised his eyes to the southern peaks, his red brows bunched in a fearsome scowl. “Are you suggesting he is going to lead us to the city itself?"

  "What use is a prophecy that is never fulfilled? Tharg would not take us very far out of our road, as I recall."

  "It would be a shorter road, because we should never return."

  True! Golbfish admitted to himself that he held no great hopes now of ever seeing Nag again. “When you were in Tharg, did you visit the double temple?"

  "I saw it, although it was not then complete. Not all the pillars were erected, K'simbr Sculptor was still working on the image of the Man as Creator. But I have looked upon the face of Death.” He spat contemptuously. “No one but the Thargians would raise such an abomination!"

  After a moment he added, “And their cooking takes the skin off your tongue."

  Before Golbfish could comment, D'ward came stalking along the parapet. He seemed to have recovered his strength, although his face was still drawn.

  "Possible?” he demanded.

  "We'll take casualties,” Kolgan growled. “But it won't be a massacre."

  The Liberator nodded and leaned on the battlements. “Get as many men working on supplies as you can. Ropes, planks ... food for the march, of course. Wineskins and barrels for floats. Have to lower the barrels down the cliffs in nets, but keep all preparations out of sight until dark, of course. A swimmer won't last two minutes in that cold. Oh ... I didn't say so, but Ysian comes with us. She knows the terrain."

  Golbfish caught Kolgan's eye. When the Lemodians returned, they would be hard on traitors.

  Kolgan was disapproving. “Sir, this will not be an easy march, even for battle-hardened warriors. For a girl...” He let the suggestion die aborning.

  D'ward was staring down at the river. “Do you know the narrowest escape I have had in this campaign so far, Coadjutant?"

  "Your entry into the city, I a
ssume, sir."

  "No.” He looked up with a grin. “The next morning, when I first met Ysian. She came at me like a whirlwind. She very nearly skewered me with a butcher knife."

  The men laughed as men do when their leader makes a joke. “You tamed her, sir!"

  "Or she tamed me. Now, anything else?"

  "What of Dosh Envoy?” asked Golbfish. “I thought you trusted him?"

  D'ward smiled thinly. “In some things. He has a higher loyalty that you'd be happier not knowing about. He'll come. Don't worry about him once we're across."

  He looked up at the drizzling clouds. “Pray for rain,” he said. “Pray for lots and lots of rain."

  Just before the light failed completely, Golbfish buckled on a sword. He sent a squad down the cliff face to rope out a path and string ladders. He followed with the next contingent, descending into black madness. Men kept coming steadily after that, with ropes, with timber, with anything that might float.

  An hour or so later, bruised, battered, and freezing, he stood on the south shore.

  He had been one of the lucky ones. Everyone went roped, with two companions feeding out the line behind him, but anyone who slipped landed in ice-cold water and was usually smashed into the rocks before he could be hauled back. Planks worked loose from their moorings, barrels sank, ropes failed, ice floes rushed out of the night like monsters. Men vanished in mid-sentence and were gone forever. Darkness and the roar of the river made communication almost impossible. The current brought down Joalian bodies.

  As soon as he had a score or so of men with him, Golbfish secured ropes to guide the rest. Then he told a squad to follow him and set off up the cliff. When the Lemodians learned what was happening, they would start rolling boulders down on the invaders.

  The slope was steep—rock and mud, dribbling water. He knew he was at the top when he banged his head on a tree root. He hauled himself over the lip and rose shakily to his feet. The darkness was absolute, but something alerted him. He ducked. A blade whistled overhead. He dragged out his sword and slashed at the night. He felt a sickening, squishy impact, heard a cry, and knew that he had just drawn his first blood. He moved quickly to the other side of the tree and peered around helplessly, listening. His victim was sobbing and muttering prayers, somewhere on the ground.