Present Tense

32

THE WEST END OF LEMODVALE WAS VERY HIGH AND THE CLIMATE WAS harsher there, but spring had come at last. Snow still lay on the hills, but in the last few days the temperature had risen dramatically, and now a drizzly rain had begun to fall. The world was about to turn green again.

Lungs strained and boots splashed in the slush as Dosh Envoy sprinted up the street. He could hear the heavy tread and labored breathing of Prat'han Troopleader at his heels. Prat'han was a bigger man by far, but he was weighted down by shield and club. Besides, while acting as D'ward's runner, Dosh had developed the best pair of legs in the army. Knowing that he could win and that winning would matter much more to the troopleader, he eased back slightly. Prat'han drew level. His face was bright red with effort and soaked with sweat. The idiot was wearing a fur suit he had looted somewhere and still persisted in wearing.

Their destination was in sight, and the two guards on the door were watching the race with interest. Prat'han put on a spurt; Dosh let him edge out in front. He was visibly in the lead as they stumbled up to the door and stopped, gasping. They leaned against the wall to catch their breaths. The guards cheered and clapped the winner on the back, but they had grins for Dosh also.

He was one of the boys, now. They spoke to him, joked with him, accepted him. If they were ever in doubt about what D'ward wanted, they would ask Dosh's opinion. He found the situation novel, amusing, and infuriatingly pleasant. He had never sought their approval—why should he enjoy it?

His sins had been forgiven the night he had helped the Liberator break into the city, almost half a year ago. They had been forgotten as soon as Anguan's pregnancy had become noticeable. Oh, once in a while one of the men would snidely inquire who had helped him with that, but the fact that it was cause for ribaldry showed that the former outcast was now accepted as a real man. Dosh's standard response was to explain that he was very versatile. That was absolutely true and always discomfited the inquirer.

"All here now?” Dosh asked as soon as he could speak. The guards nodded. “Come!” he told Prat'han, and led the way in. He was exceedingly curious to know what the Liberator was going to announce at this gathering. He hoped he had not missed anything important already.

The sign over the door said this was the house of Timbiz Wagonmaker, but now it was D'ward's. When Lemod had fallen, every man in the army had picked out a home and a woman to look after it—and him. The rest of the population had been slain or driven out, to conserve food. All the Joalian officers had moved into the palace, but the Liberator had chosen to reside with his troops. Although he had selected a home larger than most, he used it to hold meetings, and no one grudged him that symbol of rank. He was the hero who had taken the city.

He was the Liberator! Everyone knew it now, although he refused to accept the title.

The ground floor was one big workshop. There was no wagon under construction, but there was plenty of loose timber stacked around the walls. With the big double doors open the place was dim, and Dosh's eyes needed a moment to adjust. He realized how hard it had become to distinguish Nagians from Joalians. They had all survived the winter by dressing like Lemodians. In the last couple of days, some of the Nagians had begun to go around bare-chested. Not many, though. Dosh suspected that even full summer plumage would still leave the two armies looking much more alike than they had in the fall.

Everyone he had been told to summon had arrived—twenty-seven troopleaders, Kolgan, Golbfish. The new battlemaster preferred the Nagians’ custom of informality, or else he refused to impose Joalian discipline on them. Everyone was sitting. Most of the Joalians were silent and ramrod stiff, while all the Nagians were chattering, and a few were lying stretched out on back or belly. Kolgan Coadjutant and Golbfish Hordeleader were seated on either side of a pile of planks, while D'ward himself sat cross-legged between them. He shot the newcomers a smile of welcome.

Dosh found himself a dark corner where he could watch the faces. He had not been specifically told to attend the meeting himself and could only hope he would be allowed to remain. He had nothing useful to contribute. Anyone he might conceivably be sent to summon was already present.

D'ward looked like a long-legged boy between the gangling, red-haired Joalian and the bulky prince. They were obviously in serious disagreement about something. His eyes went from one side to the other and back again as his deputies contended in angry whispers across him. He was saying nothing, and nothing in his expression revealed which side he favored, if either.

To see the flaccid, wide-hipped Golbfish resisting Kolgan was a phenomenon of note. Tarion would not recognize his half brother now; and when D'ward had been promoted to battlemaster, the Nagians had elected their prince hordeleader unanimously. If Golbfish ever returned to Nagland, Nag was going to be very surprised indeed.

D'ward threw up his hands to end the argument. Then he spoke to the assembly. His blue eyes twinkled. “To business! We have a slight disagreement here about the tactical situation. Let's have it out in public. Kolgan Coadjutant?"

The tall Joalian lumbered to his feet. He was scowling, but that was his customary expression. He wore armor over at least one layer of Lemodian woolens.

Dosh would love to know how Kolgan felt about the Liberator now—a juvenile savage from a minor colony running the Joalian army? The Clique would have his head when they heard of it. But Kolgan would have lost his head a fortnight ago if D'ward had not insisted that it remain attached.

"Honored Battlemaster,” said the big redhead, “Hordeleader, and Troopleaders. The Thargians may be in Lemodvale already. If they are not, then they will come over Saltorpass the minute it's open. They will secure Siopass to close off our retreat, and they will march west to Lemod.” He glared over D'ward's head as if daring Golbfish to disagree.

The room was humming with tension. Everyone was aware of the peril. This was why Kolgan had been deposed.

"There are lesser passes closer to us,” D'ward remarked, “closer to Lemod."

Kolgan sighed patiently. “But the lesser passes open later. And even if the Thargians do manage to come that way, they cannot cut off our retreat, because they would be on the south side of the river—the wrong side."

"They could cross the river."

"No, they couldn't! The only place Lemodwater can be crossed is at Tholford."

Kolgan sounded very sure of that. Dosh grinned to himself. One of the first things the Liberator had done when Lemod was taken was to set Dosh to work scouring the city for books on the history and geography of Lemodvale.

"And our best strategy?"

"Our only strategy is to wait until Joal sends a relief force. Probably it will come over one of the lesser passes from Nagvale, but those will not open for several fortnights yet—that side of Lemodwall is higher, as you may know. Or they may come over Siopass, as we did, and then follow our route here. In either case, we must wait for relief. Lemod can resist a siege indefinitely."

"Thank you. Hordeleader?"

Kolgan sat down. Golbfish stood up, swathed in Lemodian woolens of ill-matched colors. He looked very bulky in them, but his bulk was still visibly pear-shaped.

"I agree with Kolgan Coadjutant on what the Thargians are likely to do. I disagree with him about staying shut up in Lemod. We do not know if Joal will ever send reinforcements. If it does, they will have to fight their way to us, every step. Lemod has never been taken by storm in the past, but the Thargians can starve us out. I say we march out to meet them in battle! If we are going to die, then let us die bravely in the open, not trapped like rats, eating our boots! We fought our way in here, we can fight our way out again."

His Nagians cheered him, of course, but without conspicuous enthusiasm. He sat down. Half a year ago, who would ever have expected to hear such defiance from the fat man?

D'ward glanced around the big chamber, as if inspecting reaction among the onlookers. Then he scrambled to his feet and stepped up onto the pile of planks. “My information is that the Thargian army is already in Lemodvale, and will be on our doorstep very shortly. Has anyone else heard similar rumors?"

There was a pause, a long pause. A few Nagian hands rose reluctantly. A moment later, some Joalian hands joined them. Angry whispers buzzed through the shop.

"Rumors!” Kolgan barked. “The city is sealed! Who can know?"

D'ward smiled down at the tall man's angry glare. “When we were the besiegers, the people inside the walls signaled back and forth to the Lemodians in the woods with flags. Did you not see them at the windows? And there are still many thousands of Lemodians here in Lemod. Those outside have been sending them messages. The rumors are well-founded."

Kolgan opened and closed his mouth a few times.

And so did Dosh.

The women!

The Joalian had worked it out also. “Can you trust a word they tell you?” he demanded angrily.

"Yes,” D'ward said sadly. “Some of them. And I am not the only one who has been told, obviously. This is a problem, gentlemen. Some of you have won the love of your companions, and I am sure that hundreds of others have done so also. But most of those women are now with child. I am afraid that we must leave them all behind when we depart, and that—"

"Depart?” Kolgan shouted. “Go where? How?"

"Well, home, of course! You don't want to stay here do you?"

Even the Joalians guffawed at that, even Kolgan himself, but it was laughter with a brittle ring.

The Liberator folded his arms and looked around the room again. “A fortnight ago,” he said loudly, “you honored me by electing me battlemaster. I asked you then to wait, and to trust me. You did both and I thank you for your faith. Now the time has come. This morning it started to rain."

He smiled faintly at the puzzled reaction.

"I am told, and I believe, that the Thargians outnumber us by three to one. The Lemodians must be even more numerous. While I respect Golbfish Hordeleader's courage, I refuse to send warriors against impossible odds. On the other hand, I also refuse to end my life as a slave in the Thargian silver mines."

The assembly growled agreement like a nest of fourfangs.

D'ward raised his voice. “When you have eliminated the unacceptable, you are left with the merely impossible."

He grinned and paused, as if waiting for suggestions. None came.

"No one's mentioned the rope bridges they maintain in peacetime. I looked into the possibility of building one, but it isn't practical. It would take days, and we'd need half the army on the other bank anyway, to defend the construction. If we could move half over, we might as well move all of it."

He waited a moment. Dosh wondered how many of the listeners had even known about the rope bridges. He had heard of them from Anguan and come to the same conclusion—they were not a practical solution.

Receiving no argument, D'ward continued. “It's true that the only permanent, all-weather ford on Lemodwater is Tholford. But at low water, there are other sites where active men can force a crossing. You may think that low water comes in late summer, as it does on most rivers. But Lemodwater is fed by glaciers. Its low point is right now! In a few days the rain and melting snow will start it rising again. Have none of you noticed?"

Dosh heard the mutter of surprise. Certainly he had not spared the river a glance lately, but he never stood guard on the walls. No one spoke up.

D'ward shrugged. “Well, you will see shortly. An army can go where traders and normal civilian traffic cannot. My information is that about three days ago, the Thargians arrived in Lemodvale over Moggpass, which is about twenty miles due south of us. That must have been quite a feat, but Thargians are a determined bunch when roused, so I'm told. They headed west, to Thimb'lford. Men can cross there at low water. They should be making their crossing today. Expect them at the gates by tomorrow night or the day after."

Dosh shivered.

D'ward waited until his audience fell silent. “Now do you see? They're going to be on our side of the river, the north side. So tonight we shall cross over to the south side! It must be tonight—the rain has begun. We jump the river, and then we make a forced march to Moggpass, which the Thargians have so kindly opened for us. Our only way out is to invade Thargvale itself!"

The room exploded in tumult.

D'ward yelled, “Quiet!"—and won silence. “I am your battlemaster! You will take my orders now, or you will depose me and cut off my head! Which is it to be?"

He was younger than anyone present, an untrained youth garbed in a motley collection of cast-off clothes, and yet he seemed to blaze. Deadly blue eyes raked the room. Not a whisper...

"Very well. Why does the wall go all around the city? I wondered about that when I first saw it. The only possible reason is that sometimes the river can be crossed! And right now the water is as low as it ever gets."

Men stirred in excitement. Dosh thought of the cliffs and that roaring white torrent. He shuddered. There would be Lemodians over there, and probably Thargians. Not very many, perhaps, but some.

"We need planks,” D'ward said, “and all the rope we can find. We can bridge some of the gaps with pontoons. It won't be easy in the dark, but tonight we cross Lemodwater. If we can get one man over, we can get all of us over. Tomorrow we march on Thargvale. The Thargian army will be on the wrong bank—and the river is rising!"

Escape! He was offering them hope—a slim hope, but a chink of light in a sealed tomb. So what was a thousand feet of roaring foam, sharp rocks, ice floes, and Lemodian arrows? Nothing, compared to the Thargian host. The troopleaders sprang to their feet and cheered.

D'ward waved impatiently for silence. “This is what we shall do. Secrecy is essential! Some of the women here now support us, but many are still loyal Lemodians, understandably. They will try to signal. When darkness falls, they may set the place alight. We must round up every woman in the city, so there are no signals passed. Every man will need warm clothes, good boots, four days’ rations...."

The implications struck home to Dosh like a kick in the belly. He was going to be parted from Anguan! He would miss that wiry little Lemodian wildcat. He would never see that child she carried. He had always known that this must come to pass, of course, but the actuality was an unexpected blow. Why? Affection? Gratitude for some wonderful copulation? It was no more than affection, surely?

Perhaps he was more like other men than he had realized.

He wrenched his mind back to the Liberator, who was spouting a fountain of orders and directives. Obviously he had worked out all the details in advance. As soon as darkness fell, Golbfish and Kolgan were to lead separate columns across the river. Before then, they must obtain ropes and prepare floats, pontoons, and gangplanks. There were tree trunks and ice floes caught amid the rocks. Of course it would be dangerous. They could expect to lose men, drowned or frozen. The enemy on both banks would attack when they learned what was happening.

If a contested crossing of Lemodwater had been achieved in the past, the Liberator must have learned of it in his reading. He was not mentioning that, so it had never been done.

The withdrawal of the forces on the gates...

Oh!

D'ward asked for volunteers for that contingent and got them—but who could doubt that the rear guard was going to die?

Logic said it was impossible. The Liberator said it could be done, and his words carried conviction. It was madness, and it was going to happen. It was going to happen tonight. The troopleaders listened in stunned amazement. By morning they and their army would be on the far bank, or they would all be dead. A lot of them were going to be dead anyway.

Questions?

Most of the questions were about the women. The women were certainly a problem. The women had been taken as slaves and booty, but copulation was not called “making love” without reason. Many of the men were reluctant to leave their concubines now. D'ward was adamant: The women must stay behind. Never see Anguan again...

The council took a long time, but the basic plan had been accepted. Only the details needed to be hammered out, and D'ward had answers for every objection. Dosh sat back in his shadowed corner and marveled at this spectacular display of leadership. He could not recall any hint of it in the Filoby Testament. Success or disaster, the coming night had escaped the seeress's foresight.

Eventually the Liberator had the troopleaders convinced—he had them roused to quivering excitement. When he dismissed them, they stampeded to the door to begin their preparations. Evening was coming fast.

"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."

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.

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 assume, 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.

Again an unnamed sense warned Golbfish of movement, and he flailed his sword at the empty air. He was a warrior now, a killer. Behind and below him, he could hear his own men coming.

"Watch out!” he shouted, parrying blindly. His blade struck another with a loud clang. He dropped to a crouch and swung again, knee high. A man screamed and fell into crackling undergrowth.

The only way to tell friend from foe was by speech—challenge, and if he did not reply in the right accent, try to kill him. If he just tried to kill you, don't wait for the reply. But the resistance was surprisingly light and soon faded away completely.

Having secured a beachhead in the woods, Golbfish detailed a squad to accompany him and set off to establish contact with Kolgan.

The Joalians were having a worse time of it. There was another blind skirmish in the undergrowth, and again the defenders withdrew. Soon Nagians were hauling Joalians over the cliff edge and securing ropes for those coming after. There was no sign of Kolgan himself.

Golbfish returned to his own column and was dismayed to discover less than a hundred men in position. He waited for a while to see if the Lemodians would launch a counterattack. Nothing happened; the woods were silent. He scrambled back down to the river. The army was crossing, but at this rate it seemed likely to take days. He fought his way back across the river—an even more hair-raising procedure than the first trip, for he frequently had to work his way around other men clinging to the same rope or boulder.

He harangued the crowd milling on the beach. He assured them that their comrades were crossing safely and had not just gone to a watery grave. He ordered more lines set up, more avenues mapped through the maze.

He climbed back up the north cliff in a shower of gravel, mud, and descending warriors, and somehow even forced his way up one of the rope ladders dangling on the walls. More haste! he commanded. Faster!

He reeled off in search of D'ward and found him overseeing the defense at the gates, for the Lemodians had guessed what was happening. Even there, though, the assault was strangely halfhearted.

Golbfish reported. D'ward listened, thanked him, and ordered him back to the south bank. He set off to cross the river a third time. He saw with relief that the exodus was gathering speed.

There were no moons. By midnight the rain had become a downpour, making the darkness absolute. Undoubtedly many men died at the hands of their friends as gangplank or rope failed and too many struggled to occupy the same perch. Hundreds drowned or froze or were smashed on the rocks.

At dawn Golbfish found himself in command of the army in the orchards of the south bank. Kolgan had fallen while climbing the cliff, breaking his shoulder. He was huddled in a daze of agony and shock on the shingle. The river was littered with bodies and the shore with wounded.

Rain still fell in torrents. The river was visibly rising. Lemod was back in the hands of its rightful owners, blazing in several places from fires set to slow down their return. There was no sign of pursuit. Praise the gods!

Dosh Envoy appeared in the first gray light, accompanied by a boy whom a second glance showed to be Ysian in male clothing. The sight of her blue lips persuaded Golbfish to let fires to be lit. The two camps had been amalgamated and he had posted a cordon around the perimeter, almost a solid fence of men. The Lemodians were still not attacking, not even reverting to their old guerrilla tactics. Why not?

Everyone was coated in mud. Half the survivors seemed to be limping or staggering blindly in deep shock. One skinny youngster arrived hobbling, with his arms around two friends. He pulled loose from them and steadied himself on one leg, hanging on to a branch.

"How many?” he barked, and Golbfish realized that the kid's eyes were blue.

"Casualties? Four or five hundred, I think."

The muddy scarecrow winced. “No opposition?"

"Very little. How many did you leave behind?"

"Damned few,” D'ward said. “How many can't walk?"

Golbfish shrugged. “There are at least fifty still down on the beach. Up here ... I don't know. Another fifty?"

The Liberator groaned and wiped an arm across his face. It remained just as filthy as before. “You all right?"

"A trifle fatigued, perhaps. You, sir?"

Chuckle. Another groan. “Twisted an ankle, that's all.” The Liberator laid his injured foot on the ground and showed his teeth in a grimace. “My first battle,” he muttered.

Golbfish saw how his eyes were glistening, and felt a curious twinge of sympathy. Like him, D'ward was not a genuine soldier, was not hardened to being responsible for the lives of followers. Most leaders would have been cheering madly at this point, exulting in a brilliantly executed withdrawal. Twice now, D'ward had pulled off stunning reversals; twice he had made brilliant generalship look like child's play, and all he was concerned with was the cost.

"The river has taken its toll, but it was not the massacre the Thargians would have inflicted."

"We must see they don't get their chance yet.” D'ward eased himself to the ground. “Summon the troopleaders.” Ysian came and knelt beside him. She tried to wipe his face with a rag, and he waved her away irritably.

Soon the troopleaders gathered around, a bedraggled, shaken retinue, barely half the number who should have been there. D'ward appointed temporary substitutes and sent for them—there was no time for proper elections, he said. He seemed to know the names and abilities of every man, Joalians as well as Nagians.

Still sitting in the mud, leaning against a tree, he outlined what everyone already knew and did not want to think of. They had escaped from one trap, but only into a greater. The Thargians might recross the river and try to intercept their quarry before it could reach Moggpass. If not, they would head east to Tholford and block the road back to Nagvale. There would undoubtedly be many more armed men in Thargland itself. The reckoning had only been postponed.

"Now we must march,” he said. “Anyone who can't must stay. Form up."

The men were exhausted, but the alternative was death or slavery. The troopleaders exchanged glances, but no one objected.

D'ward hauled himself to his feet. Half a dozen men rushed forward to help, but he refused them. In obvious pain, he began to hobble forward. In a moment someone offered him a staff, freshly cut, and he accepted that. He was setting an example, but that was all he was capable of.

Kolgan had arrived, but he was still too shocked by pain and exposure to be any use at all. Marveling at the strange fate the fickle gods had thrust upon him—and cynically amused by it also—Golbfish took effective command and issued the necessary orders.

One woman and less than five thousand men set off on a journey of conquest and deliverance. The steady, chilling rain was both a physical torment and a promise of hope.

Behind them, the abandoned wounded screamed and pleaded until their voices faded into the distance.

35

"THARGVALE IS BEAUTIFUL,” EXETER SAID. “NATURALLY. IT'S VERY fertile, the climate is moderate, and it's ruled by an aristocracy."

"What has aristocracy got to do with beauty?” Smedley asked drowsily.

Mrs. Bodgley had shepherded her guests indoors to the drawing room and settled them in chairs. A single oil lamp cast a soft light on the four faces, while two moths held races around the glass chimney. Fortunately the chairs were excessively uncomfortable, or Smedley would not have been able to stay awake at all. Alice had reluctantly consented to play, insisting she was hopelessly out of practice. She had then executed a couple of Chopin études from memory. Very well, too, so far as he could tell. And now they were back on Nextdoor again.

"Oh, really, Captain!” His hostess's tone suggested that he was showing himself to be excessively ill informed. “It's a matter of tender loving care! The only people who can look after land properly are those who plan to hand it on to their children and grandchildren. Gilbert's father planted an avenue of oak trees, knowing he could never live to see their majesty. That was fifty years ago, and they need another hundred at least. Gilbert himself absolutely refused to countenance mining operations on our place in the Midlands. That sort of thing. Men who think only of their own lifetimes exploit land. Those who think of their families nurture it. Do help yourself to another cigar if you wish,” she added, as though regretting her scolding.

Smedley thanked her and heaved himself out of the lumpy chair even more gratefully. He went to the humidor. No Bodgleys would admire the oak trees in their prime. The Bodgley line had died out when Timothy was murdered. There was no one left to smoke the cigars, even.

Alice's eyes were twinkling in the lamp's gentle glow. “You can carry it too far, of course, like anything else. William the Conqueror depopulated whole counties to make royal deer forests. People have rights, too."

Mrs. Bodgley considered the point and seemed to decide that it was a dangerous heresy. “Not necessarily. People come and go, but land is forever."

Exeter flickered a wink at Smedley as he returned to his chair. “Do you suppose that aristocrats’ tendencies to make war all the time is a form of population control, weeding out the peasants?"

The lady saw the hook at once and bit it off. “Probably! Lancing a few of the men would be kinder than letting women and babies starve, wouldn't it?"

"Depends which end of the lance you're on, I expect. But land and war do seem to go together. The Thargian military caste is just as bad as Prussian Junkers."

Dogs of war howled in the night of the mind. “Dueling scars?” Smedley demanded.

"No, I don't think they go that far."

"Thargvale is like England?” asked Alice.

"It has the same organized, cared-for look. The vegetation is very different. Thargian trees are colorful. We have copper beeches and then dull old green. They have blue and gold and magenta and various other shades as well. But the great estates are beautiful. The farmland is one big garden. The wild parts are beautiful too—and yes, some of those are deer parks. There are no picturesque little villages, though, or not many. The slave barns are kept out of sight."

"Sparta?” Mrs. Bodgley murmured.

"Similar,” Exeter agreed. “I didn't see much of it at first. Partly because it was raining cats and dogs, partly because I twisted an ankle leaving Lemod and it took everything I had just to keep walking. The river crossing was a tricky business all round. Old Golbfish was the hero of the hour, organized the whole thing and rallied the troops. We were lucky with the weather. The river began to rise, so the Thargian army daren't come after us. The Lemodian guerrillas left us alone. By the second day we were into Moggpass. The Thargians had opened a trail—bridging streams, cutting through the avalanches, and so on, and that helped a lot. By the fourth day or thereabouts we came panting down into Thargvale and could start the looting and pillaging. We were half a year late, but that's what the original intention had been. Everyone had a great time."

"Except you?” Alice asked.

"I healed up quite quickly, actually. The troops were feeding me mana, although they didn't know it. Not that I deserved it, but that made no difference."

Smedley fought down a yawn. The carriage clock on the mantel estimated the time at around eleven. As soon as he finished the cigar he would excuse himself and head off to bed. Exeter's little war was interesting, but he had no need to hear any more about war for the next hundred years.

Alice was wearing a dangerously sweet smile. “So Pocahontas led you to the pass, did she? Then she went back to her own people?"

In a very flat voice, Exeter said, “Yes, she led us to the pass. She couldn't go back to her family, although we went very near her home. They would have treated her as a traitor, even though she was only a child."

"I see. Sorry. I was being bitchy."

Mrs. Bodgley gulped audibly. “Er, what did these Thargian Junkers of yours have to say about the looting and pillaging?"

Looting and pillaging were not part of the Fallow curriculum.

"Almost nothing! That was very strange indeed! They shadowed us with cavalry, lancers on moas. We could see them in the distance, but they never closed. They picked off stragglers and patrols, but only Joalians. Nagian blood was never shed."

"Odd?"

"Very! Favoritism! It began to cause dissension, as you may imagine. Golbfish insisted that the enemy was trying to pry the allies apart, split the Nagians away from the Joalians, and he managed to keep the peace more or less—he was a wonder, that man! After a couple of days, when the pattern became obvious, he suggested that Nagians and Joalians exchange equipment, helmet for shield, spear for sword. We tried that, and even the army itself could hardly tell which was which. The Thargians stopped attacking at all.

"We kept up the pace. Forced marches, thirty miles a day. It was a race. Moggpass had held us up a little. After that we had a clear run across Thargvale to get to Saltorpass and home. Thargian roads are excellent, as you might guess. In order to cut us off, their main army had to run the gauntlet of Lemodflat, and I told you what that's like."

"Obviously you won the race, or you wouldn't be here."

Exeter rubbed his eyes. “No. We lost. Well, not exactly. The Great Game came into play again. I say, it feels deucedly late! We didn't get much sleep last night.... Do you think we could continue this breathtaking saga in the morning?"

"Well, of course!” Mrs. Bodgley said. “But you can't leave us hanging like that! Give us a clue. What do you mean by the Great Game?"

"The Pentatheon, the Five. I told you how Krobidirkin got me involved in the Joalian campaign, and possibly Tion was in on that also. I still don't know all the details. The Game is so complicated that even the players can't keep track of the rules, and everyone has his own way of scoring. But when Zath learned that the gates of Lemod had been opened under a quadruple conjunction, he knew exactly where the Liberator was. So he leaned on Karzon, who is the Man, who is also patron god of Thargland. That was why the Thargians weren't killing us—the priests in Tharg had received a revelation from Karzon."

"I'm lost,” Alice said.

"Zath wanted me taken alive."

"Alive?"

"So he could make absolutely certain I died, of course. This time he was going to do it himself and see it was done right."

36

NOONTIME SUN BEAT DOWN ON THE DUSTY ROAD. THERE WERE NO mountains in sight to the south at all—a situation that seemed wrong to Dosh, as if a necessary part of the world were missing. Thargvale was very big, the army very small. With the scouts and foragers and skirmishers spread out amid copses, hollows, and hedges, five thousand men could vanish into the landscape. Trudging up the road with Ysian at his side, he could easily disbelieve in those five thousand men.

That was a delusion, a fancy. In fact Talba's squad was just ahead, out of sight over the rise. Beyond the hedgerows, patrols flanked the army's progress on either hand. Gos'lva and his cavalry troop were close behind—unfortunately.

Since Lemod the cavalry traveled on foot, like everyone else. They were close enough to call out ribald remarks, usually about the incongruity of the pervert squiring the battlemaster's concubine. Away from the city, out in the field again, Dosh was no longer one of the boys. Jittery men needed a butt for nervy humor, and he was an obvious target.

"Hey, Pogink Lancer?” bellowed a voice.

"Yes, Koldfad Lancer?” roared another.

"Tell me, Pogink Lancer, why Dosh hath no spear?"

"I don't know, Koldfad Lancer. Why hath Dosh no spear?"

The punch line was predictably obscene. The cavalry's humor had never been of the best; descent to ground level and the status of mere mortals had not improved it. Their current blisters, fatigue, hunger, danger, and other tribulations must be very good for their souls but were obviously failing to keep their primitive minds from carnal fantasies.

Dosh bore no weapons because D'ward still used him as a runner. He probably traveled twice as far as the rest of the Army did in a day. He didn't usually let the abuse worry him, and didn't know why he was feeling the bite now.

"Hey, Koldfad Lancer?"

"Yes, Pogink Lancer?"

"What do you think of the way those hips move?"

"Which hips are you admiring, Pogink Lancer?"

"You don't have to stay here and listen to them,” Ysian said quietly.

Dosh glanced down and saw a puzzled look in her big, clear eyes—the eyes of a child. She had been limping along at his side in silence for some time, apparently paying as little attention to the humorists as he did ... paying, it must be admitted, very little attention to him either. The pack she bore was as big as any man's, her boyish form bent almost double under it. Every man in the army was half again as big as she was, but she kept up. She never complained, so far as Dosh knew. He sought her out and escorted her when he wasn't running errands, but the two of them rarely spoke much. The only thing they had in common was that they were both misfits.

A runner could not carry a pack, either. Ysian had shared her rations with him.

"They're just getting randy,” he muttered, and then wondered if she would even understand what he meant.

Apparently she did. “This rape and pillage expedition hasn't produced much of either so far, has it? And they are not as perceptive as you are."

"Don't let them vex you. D'ward had his own reasons for bringing you. It's none of their business. Want me to carry that pack for a while?"

Ysian shook her head, hefted the pack higher on her shoulders, and continued to limp along.

D'ward was bringing up the rear, as he usually did. He had given himself the task of inspiring the stragglers, the wounded and the weakest, although every day men would drop in their tracks and perforce be abandoned to the doubtful mercy of the Thargians. Golbfish was in the van, leading the rout.

The land was deserted. The Thargians had burned the houses and driven off all the livestock. There were no women to rape and precious few goods to pillage—which mattered little, as the invaders had no pack beasts to carry booty. Whenever the weary foot-sloggers did manage to catch a stray zebu or auroch, it went straight in the pot. The rations brought from Lemod were exhausted; the spring fields were bare. A few more days of this, and hunger would bring the army to its knees.

Thargwall to the north was a glittering parade of ice and fresh spring snow. Somewhere behind it the Thargians must be marching too. Mountains loomed to the east also, closer every day. Within those crags lay Saltorpass, the road home, but could the weary, starving invaders ever hope to force it, and then Siopass after? This campaign seemed destined for fame as one of the greatest military blunders in Valian history. Joalia had sacked Lemod, thanks to D'ward, but otherwise all it had achieved was to force the Thargians into wasting a strip of their own homeland. Dosh found that a very small consolation indeed.

Like the peaks of Thargwall, massacre and surrender loomed ahead, ever closer, and the survivors would go to the silver mines. The two misfits could hope for nothing better. Dosh was serving his chosen god, and to die for Tion would guarantee him an eternal place with the blessed among the constellations, but the girl had no reason to be there. She had been useful as a guide in Lemodvale—why had D'ward not left her there? Had he no gratitude at all? Dosh would have expected better of the Liberator, somehow. The Filoby Testament never mentioned any Ysian, as far as he could remember. That meant nothing; the prophecies were very patchy.

He was on top of the rise now, with Talba and his men in clear view ahead. He stared around at the countryside—half expecting, as always, to see a second Thargian army advancing in wrath. Specks in the far distance were some of their scouts, lancers on moas. They rode circles around the invaders, watching like buzzards, pestering like mosquitoes, and yet now they had stopped attacking at all.

A temple!

A cluster of trees and ancient stone buildings standing all alone, halfway up a hillside in the middle of a pasture, where there was no visible reason for any sort of settlement at all—that could only be a sanctuary of some sort. The trees’ spring foliage was beaten gold, but so was the glint of the central dome, and gold said Tion. Dosh could not resist that call. He did want to; he was eager to serve his master.

"Better see if D'ward needs me,” he muttered, and stepped to the verge.

Gos'vla and his men marched by; he gave them the finger and they shouted obscenities at him. As soon as they had gone past, he dived through the hedge. He sat down in the weeds and waited for the rear guard to pass. The last troop went by him singing lustily, which was reasonable evidence that D'ward was with them, encouraging and inspiring as only he could.

Dosh stayed where he was a little longer. Then he scrambled to his feet and began to run across the fields.

37

SMEARS OF DUST IN THE DISTANCE TOLD DOSH THAT THE THARGIANS were still skulking. They might very well intercept him before he could ever catch up with his companions again. He was neither Nagian or Joalian, so he could not guess how they would treat him. It was better not to speculate. No matter, he had news he must pass to his master.

Half a fortnight ago D'ward had asked an unsettling question: Why should a god need spies to tell him things? Dosh had puzzled over that a lot until he worked out the answer. A god did not need anything. Gods were omniscient. It was the act of service that was important, and it was important only to Dosh himself. As a huntercat was trained to fetch prey, so he was being trained to serve, so that his soul might be worthy of a place in the heavens. Sacrifice was of value to the worshipper, not the god. The more it hurt the better it was, whether the sacrifice was a scrawny chicken or an act of service. Tion did not need Dosh, but Dosh desperately needed Tion.

The settlement was an abbey, he decided as he drew close. A nunnery was possible but a monastery more likely for an avatar of Tion.

Gasping for breath, he trotted through the gateway, slowing to a respectful walk within the sacred precincts. The buildings were very old, thickly coated with moss—five of them crouching among the trees and one larger edifice standing off by itself in the open. From the size of its windows, that one was probably a scriptorium. The order could not be very large, a dozen monks at most, and he wondered what they did with themselves, all alone out here in the hills. He caught a glimpse of a gowned figure bent over, weeding a herb garden, but saw no one else around. Prosaic washing waved on a line.

The minster was recognizable by its dome and central location. His wet shirt flapped against his skin as he strode up the steps. One side of the double door stood ajar, and he stepped through into clammy dimness.

The little chapel was entirely barren of furniture, not even an altar. It held only the image of the god, lit by beams shafting down from high slits in the dome. It certainly represented some aspect of the Youth, but a chunky, unappealing carving in veined marble, with his customary nudity partly concealed by a scroll he held vertically in both hands.

Dosh had been given a personal ritual to summon his master. Gods always designed such ceremonial so that they would not be duplicated by any trivial accidental gesture, and in his case he had to begin by taking off his clothes. That required privacy. He stood on one leg to remove a boot and almost fell over as a tall figure floated forward out of the shadows. Where had he ... Oh, there was a door in the corner.

The monk was elderly, but his back was straight and his shaven face and head made his age hard to estimate. The bones were well shaped under the parchment skin; in his youth he would probably have been worthy to serve the lord of beauty. His yellow robe shone in the gloom; his sandals made a faint shuffling noise on the stone floor. A glittering necklace dangling to his waist suggested that he was the abbot himself. He was frowning.

"You come to pay reverence to Holy Prylis, my son?"

Fortunately, long winter nights of pillow talk with Anguan had given Dosh a grasp of Lemodian, and Lemodian was not unlike that dreadful Thargian croak. He understood, if only just. Prylis was god of learning—hence the scroll.

Clearly the holy father did not approve of sweat-soaked worshippers arriving out of breath, shirt unfastened, muddy boots. He probably expected Dosh to kneel and kiss that chain now, and then he would order the peasant off to some freezing pond to bathe before commencing his worship.

Dosh made the gesture of Tion, but he used his left hand and simultaneously extended two fingers of his right. It was probably a recognition signal of one of the Tion cults, although Dosh had never been sworn to a mystery. Just where he had learned that sign, he could not recall. Perhaps the god himself had instructed him. It always worked.

It did now. The old priest bowed low. He did not even raise his head fully, did not look directly at his visitor again. Murmuring, “I shall see that you are not disturbed, my son,” he departed, sandals whispering hurriedly on the flags. The outer door closed behind him with a thump, making the chamber even darker. Much better.

Dosh stripped, shivery in the dank cold. The series of postures he was required to assume would normally be regarded as utter blasphemy in a temple, but one of the Youth's attributes was Kirb'l, the Joker. Dosh bowed to the idol, turned his back, bent over....

"What in the world are you doing?"

He shrieked and jumped and twisted around. There was no one there. Furious enough to forget his nudity, he strode over to the little door in the corner and threw it open. Beyond it lay a small chamber containing a table heaped with books. There was no other furniture, no other door. The voice had not come from there.

Trembling now, he hurried back to the idol and abased himself on the cold stone floor.

"Well?” asked that same sepulchral voice. “You have not answered my question."

"Lord, I was merely performing the ritual that you taught me."

"Oh!” There was no doubt now that the voice was coming from the statue. “Tion did, you mean?"

Dosh gibbered for a minute. “But are you not Holy Tion also, Lord?"

The god uttered a peculiar tee-hee noise, almost a snigger. “Well, not always. Not at the moment. What is he up to now? What in the world are those scars on your face? Start at the beginning and tell me the whole story."

"But...” Dosh had performed his ritual several times, in shrines or temples, and always it had brought the Lord of Beauty himself. But of course this time he had not completed the ritual, had hardly begun it. Were not all Tion's avatars Tion? That was what the priests said. Why, then, did this one refer to the Lord of Beauty as “he"?

It was not his place to question. “Lord, I have been following the Liberator, as you..."

"Yes?"

"As you ... I think you told me to. I don't remember!” He began to panic. “I have to report to you what the Liberator does, don't I? That's right, isn't it? You must have..."

"When did it begin?” asked the voice. It had lost some of its spooky, echoing quality. It sounded almost gentle. “Did you by chance win the gold rose in the—our, I mean—festival?"

"Yes! Yes!"

"What year?"

"Six hundred, ninety-seventh festival, Lord."

"And then what happened?"

"I...” Dosh moaned. He trembled. He felt faint. “I don't remember! I stood on the dais with the rose in my hair, giving out the prizes in the festival. Then ... I don't remember!” The next day he had gone to the palace in Lemod and asked Prince Tarion for work and been hired on the spot. That was almost a year ago now.... But that did not add up! “Four years? That festival was four years ago, wasn't it?"

"Yes, it was. Put your clothes on, lad.” The god's voice had lost its divine menace altogether and become almost chatty. “I can see you're freezing. Don't worry about the missing years. You're much happier not remembering, I'm sure. Keep talking. You mean that the Liberator is actually here, in Thargvale?"

Dosh confirmed that as he shivered into his wet garments. Three years! Three years stolen out of his life!

"That's very serious! Dangerous! Did the Service send him here, so soon?"

"The who, Lord?"

"The Service! The Church of the Undivided, if you prefer. Hmph! Obviously you don't know about them. My mast—my senior aspect has not been totally frank with you. Well, this is all very interesting, yes? Tee-hee! I must meet the Liberator. Go and fetch him."

Dosh gulped in dismay. D'ward and the army would be miles away by now. How could he, Dosh, ever persuade the Liberator to turn it around and come back? Even less likely was the possibility of his coming alone, with the Thargian cavalry prowling over the countryside.

But to disobey a direct order from the god was unthinkable. It might condemn him to more years of ... of what?

Hatred! Three years of his life had been stolen!

Anger and sorrow burned up in his throat. He turned and stared hard at the inanimate image. This was another god altogether. He must not let his sudden fury at Tion spill over onto Prylis. He must not antagonize the god of learning, who had granted him this wisdom.

And the Liberator—D'ward had done far more for him than Tion ever had. Must he now lead D'ward to his death?

"Lord, how can I ever persuade the Liberator to come? There is danger!"

"Mmph! See what you mean. Well, your new insight will be a sign to him, and ... yes ... we shall find you some assistance. Go outside."

More bewildered than ever, Dosh genuflected to the god, then stumbled over to the door. He stepped out into blinding sunlight. A hand grabbed his hair and hurled him forward. He pitched down the steps and sprawled on the gravel. Through sudden tears of pain he saw shiny boots all around him.

"...is no Nagian!” said a harsh voice.

"Not with hair that color,” another agreed. “We can kill this one."

"Feed him to the worms."

"Sacrilege!” someone bleated. “You violate the holy sanctuary!"

"Take him outside the gate, then,” said the first.

Dosh heard a strange moaning noise and realized it came from himself. Rough hands grabbed his arms and hauled him to his feet. He was surrounded by eight or nine Thargian lancers—hard, wiry men, in green and black leather riding gear, in bronze helmets, all clean shaven in Thargian fashion. He tried to speak and merely gibbered.

The abbot was flustering around in the background, wringing his hands and still protesting the sacrileges: violence on the steps of the minster, moas desecrating the gardens, general lack of respect. Followers of Karzon could not be expected to pay much heed to a priest of Prylis, and these troopers were not about to create precedents like that.

"Move, scum!” said the leader.

As Dosh was jerked forward, the minster doors behind him flew open with a boom.

"Stop!” roared a voice of thunder.

The hands released him. He staggered and almost fell.

"Come in here, all of you!” No mortal could be that loud.

The image still seemed to be marble, and yet it was also flesh. The scroll was almost vellum, and Prylis still held it before him. His eyes were more visibly alive than the rest of him, shining as blue as D'ward's. His hair had taken on a golden hue.

The abbot and the Thargians groveled before him. Behind them, Dosh knelt respectfully, then stared disbelievingly at the idol. That pose with the vertical scroll—it was deliberately obscene! Why had he not noticed sooner? New insight the god had said.... The Joker mocked his worshippers!

A voice of thunder rolled around the chapel: “Barbarians! Say why we should not smite you for your sacrilege?"

The lancers moaned and gabbled.

"Lord!” their leader croaked. “We followed orders. We were told that Holy Karzon—"

"This place does not belong to Karzon! You, Ksargirk Captain, are sworn to his vile cult of the Blood and Hammer, we see. You also, Tsuggig Lancer, and Twairkirg Lancer ... and Progyurg Lancer, too. Savages! Renounce your oaths!"

The soldiers howled.

"Abjure or die and be forever damned!” the god screamed, louder than ever.

In quavering mumbles, the four men renounced their oaths to whatever the Blood and Hammer was—some warriors’ cult of Karzon, presumably, probably nasty. Dosh decided he was enjoying this unexpected change of fortune. Prompted by the divine bellow, the bullyboys denounced the Man and swore never to seek his patronage again. They were practically wetting their breeches with terror now.

It was nice to have friends in positions of authority.

"Now swear eternal obedience to us! All of you! Swear that forever more you will worship the Youth above all gods."

Could it be that the god was enjoying this also? There was an odd timbre to his thunder, which in a mortal might have hinted of bluster. How often would an obscure, unassuming deity like Prylis indulge in such assertive behavior?

The troopers swore allegiance to Tion with great reluctance, some of them almost weeping. Dosh suspected that the apostates would arrive in the heavens most speedily if Karzon ever heard of this breach of faith—or if any of their friends as much as suspected, either.

"Now,” the god said in a slightly less deafening roar, “there is a great evil abroad in the world, and you are called to strive against it."

"Tell us its name, Lord,” said the captain, sounding encouraged.

"Its name is Zath!"

The troopers exchanged horrified glances.

"You are charged to give all help to our trusted servant Dosh Envoy, whom you sought to slay. You will obey his orders without question or hesitation and if necessary to the death, until such time as he releases you. Rise, Dosh Envoy."

Dosh stood up. One by one the Thargian lancers knelt to him and swore unlimited obedience. Yes, he was definitely enjoying this! He was going to continue enjoying it, too. That young one ... Progyurg? Yes, Progyurg Lancer was a really cute-looking kid.... Obey without question or hesitation, mm?

For some reason, Dosh suddenly thought of D'ward. Tarion certainly saw nothing wrong in using the authority of rank to satisfy personal whims. Progyurg himself would certainly not argue, because Thargians put obedience to superior officers before anything else in the world, but D'ward would disapprove. Dosh felt sure of that, although he did not know why or how he knew. Well, he would think over the morals of the situation before he detailed Progyurg for special duties.

"Holy Father Abbot?” boomed the god.

The old man was still groveling. “Lord?"

"Dosh Envoy may need your assistance also. Aid him. Um. That seems to be all, doesn't it? Tee-hee! Well, I suppose you are all our servants now and we give you our blessing."

The image was marble again.

Poor Progyurg Lancer toppled to the floor in a dead faint.

38

THE ARMY HAD CAMPED AMID THE RUINS OF A GREAT MANOR. THE big house was a smoking, stinking ruin, but some of the many outbuildings had survived. Together with stone walls around yards and paddocks, these gave shelter from the cool wind that had sprung up at dusk, and they concealed the little campfires. Eltiana's red eye stared down from the darkening sky; the stars were gathering.

The Sonalby troop was crammed into a tiny courtyard. Ysian spotted Prat'han right away, and began jostling her way quickly toward him, stumbling over legs. Nagians accepted her much more readily than the Joalians did. She was D'ward's woman, and if D'ward had chosen to bring his concubine along while forbidding anyone else to do so, that was his leader's privilege as far as they were concerned. They would be shocked speechless if they knew that D'ward had never as much as kissed her. Dosh Envoy had guessed, but Dosh was a creepily perceptive person.

The Sonalby troop especially regarded the Liberator as one of themselves; they seemed to approve of his choice of woman, and now they greeted Ysian with whoops and crude jokes in the gabbling Nagian accents. They were definitely not thinking of her as a baby sister, which was a nice change. When she said she was looking for D'ward, of course, the humorists shouted that she mustn't tire the poor man, should at least wait until bedtime, and so on. The others laughed and agreed. She was used to that now. In half a fortnight with the army, she had learned a great deal about men that she had never known before, and one of the things she had learned was they rarely thought of anything other than sex. Their single-mindedness was quite astonishing.

Big, gangling Prat'han was squatting by one of the fires, roasting something on a stick. He yelled at the jokers to be quiet. Then he shone big teeth at her. “The battlemaster has gone scouting with the Thoid'lbians, lady. They wanted to see if they can climb that ruined tower. Should be back soon. Stay and keep us company, for we are all lonely for the sound of a woman's voice.” The audience shouted agreement.

Ysian was very conscious of so many men close around her, a very odd feeling, and not unpleasant. Their attention was flattering. But she had come to see if Prat'han would help her rescue Dosh, and now she realized she could not ask him in public like this. Relations between Nagians and Joalians were bad. She knew D'ward was worried; she must not do anything to make matters worse. Prat'han must know that too, so he might refuse to get involved. Or too many of the troop might get too much involved, and she would have started a riot. Bother!

"I really can't stay just now, Troopleader. I'd like to. Maybe later."

Prat'han said that was a pity. The men needed the company of beautiful women to keep their morale up. Then he held out his stick to her. Sonalby, he explained, had met with good fortune that afternoon—a marshy pond, full of fat lizards. The tails were a great delicacy, and she must eat this one while it was hot. He smiled proudly.

She took the stick and tried not to look at the smoking lump on the end of it. She would not eat lizard if she were dying of starvation, but it might be just the excuse she needed to intrude on the terrible things she had seen happening.

"This is very kind of you,” she said. “It smells delicious! You won't mind if I take it with me, will you?"

"Alas! We are heartbroken. Where must you rush off to so urgently?"

"Oh...” Ysian was already edging away over the tangle of legs. “A friend needs me. Something I must do before D'ward gets back."

Of course they chose to misinterpret her words, but nothing she could have said would have been proof against their coarse humor. With the raucous suggestions scorching her ears, she hurried off into the shadows. Her father had never talked like that. D'ward never talked like that. D'ward was different. She rather wished he were not quite so different. She thought he would approve of what she was doing now, because she knew he disliked deliberate cruelty as much as she did. She was so mad she did not care overmuch whether he would approve or not.

She detoured around the charred and stinking remains of a stable to avoid a camp of Joalians. She reached the shed she wanted. The door was ajar, casting a thin wedge of lamplight over the cobbled yard outside. The horrible noises had stopped. Ignoring sudden quiverings in her insides, she kicked the door open and marched right in. The hut was larger than she had realized, bare except for a workbench along one wall; from the smell, it was probably where wool was baled at shearing time.

Two of the Joalians were sitting on the bench, feet dangling. Two more were leaning against their shadows on the wall. Dosh lay curled up in the middle of the floor, his arms bound behind him and more rope around his ankles. The old scars on his face were hidden by blood and fresh welts, his legs were bruised and scratched. Rips in his shirt showed more bruises on his ribs, repulsively bright on his fair skin.

"Well!” One of the Joalians on the bench paused in licking his knuckles. “Brought us some supper, did you?"

"Not for you!” Ysian did not look at him. She knelt down beside Dosh and pulled out her knife. D'ward had given it to her when they left Lemod, telling her to keep it handy always.

"Hey!” the Joalian shouted. “What do you think you're doing?"

"He can't eat with his hands tied, Troopleader.” She sawed at the rope around the prisoner's wrists. It had bitten into the flesh, and his hands were hideously red.

He peered at her out of the corner of his eye, looking very astonished. He gasped as the rope parted.

The Joalian leader pushed himself off the bench, his boots thudding on the flagstones. He was big and swarthy and hook nosed. His shadow leaped up behind him, huge and menacing. “Who said you could do that? And why should a traitor eat before honest men?"

However disgusting the grisly lump on the stick seemed to her, all four guards were eying it hungrily.

"He's not a traitor until the battlemaster says so! Here!” She thrust her revolting offering at Dosh, who was struggling to sit up.

"Need a minute,” he muttered, chaffing his hands.

"You give that to me!” The Joalian bent to grab it from her.

Ysian whipped it around behind her back. “Go and get your own food! This is for Dosh Envoy.” She tried to glare up at him, but kneeling was not a good position for glaring.

"Dosh Traitor you mean! Just because you're the battlemaster's harlot doesn't give you the right to order me around, missy!” He tried again to take the stick from her. “You don't have his authority to do that!"

"Yes, she does,” D'ward said, marching in. Golbfish Hordeleader's cumbersome bulk filled the doorway behind him.

Ysian relaxed with a rush of relief. She had been starting to think that things might shortly begin to get somewhat out of hand. Dosh grinned at her, showing blood on his teeth. She handed him the stick. He took it in his swollen fingers but did not try to eat.

The Joalians had come to attention. Tall and fearsomely blue-eyed, D'ward glanced them over, then spared a longer, harder look for Dosh. He was making no effort to hide his anger, and it filled the shed like a winter frost. He spoke first to Ysian.

"What are you doing here, Viks'n?"

"I brought Dosh Envoy some supper."

"Why?"

"I thought they might stop torturing him if I was here."

D'ward sighed and gave her his exasperated look, which always annoyed her tremendously. “Well, cut his feet loose too. Now, Dibber Troopleader, I want an explanation. Report!"

"Sir! Saw this man consorting with the enemy, sir!” The Joalian waited, as if nothing more need be said. When nothing more was said, he spoke again, but with much less confidence. “This afternoon you passed the word for him, sir. He wasn't found, sir, was he? About sunset, sir, we saw him in the distance with a band of Thargians. We watched him try to sneak into camp unobserved ... arrested him ... sir...."

D'ward's eyes shone like blue steel. “You did not report to Kolgan Coadjutant or Golbfish Hordeleader?"

"Er ... waiting for you, sir..."

"So you questioned him yourself?"

"Er, yes, sir.” The troopleader's face glistened wetly under the lantern—he was scared and serve him right!

"Did he tell you anything?"

"Some lies about acting on your orders, sir."

"And you know he wasn't, do you?"

An insect thudded into the lamp and bounced off. In the awful silence, it sounded like a drumbeat. When D'ward spoke, his voice was even softer but full of menace.

"Dosh Envoy, did any of them try to stop what was happening?"

"Not that I heard.” Amazingly, Dosh was now nibbling at the lizard tail. He seemed remarkably cheerful, considering the beating he had suffered.

D'ward pronounced judgment. “Dibber, you exceeded your authority. Go back to your troop. Inform them that you have been demoted and they are to elect a successor. He is to report to Golbfish Hordeleader immediately with recommendations for your further punishment. That means all of you. Go!"

The prince moved his mass aside, and the four men stampeded out into the darkness. Golbfish pulled the door closed, with himself on the inside of it. He was smiling, yet somehow he did not look pleased. Ysian stood up, planning to leave the three men to their deliberations. She had done what she came for. She thought she deserved a little more appreciation for it, too.

"You'd better stay, Viks'n.” D'ward heaved himself up on the bench, feet dangling. He stared down at Dosh with disgust. “Oh, you! What sort of mess are you in this time?"

"Got a message for you,” Dosh said, still chewing. Apparently he was actually enjoying the revolting meal. He could not have been eating well lately.

Puzzled that she was wanted, but quite pleased, Ysian moved back against the wall. She caught the prince's eye. He nodded and smiled at her, and she did not understand that, either. She liked the big hordeleader. He always spoke to her as if she were a lady.

"From?” D'ward said.

Dosh glanced warily at Ysian and Golbfish. “A friend of a friend. A servant of a former master of mine. The one you guessed."

"Aha! You can talk about him now?"

Dosh nodded. “The servant removed the master's ... directive.” He choked. “That bastard! That mudpig! He stole three years of my life!"

He tried to rise. Golbfish went to help him, and he staggered to his feet. “This aspect's all right—I think. He wants to meet you."

D'ward raised his eyebrows.

Golbfish made a rumbling sound. “Now wait a minute! Let's hear where you went—and how you came back. And what about the Thargians?"

Dosh leaned both arms on the bench. He must be in a lot of pain, though he was trying not to show it. “Liberator—"

"Don't call me that! You'd better speak openly. I trust these two, and they deserve to know what secret they're keeping. Out with it!"

"Sure?” Dosh said impudently. He was never as respectful to the Liberator as everyone else was. “Well, I went to a temple, to report to Tion. I met his avatar Prylis—god of learning. I gave him my report, but ... Well, he isn't Tion!"

"Of course he isn't. None of them are. What else?"

"He wants you to go to him. Very important, he said. Some Thargians had followed me. Prylis bound them to my service. They have to obey me!” Dosh tried to laugh, winced, and rubbed his ribs regretfully.

Ysian caught Golbfish's eye again. He was frowning, but he did not look as surprised as she would have expected. Perhaps D'ward had told him some of the strange things he had told her—things that would have shocked her parents to the core, things she would have believed to be dreadful heresies had she heard them from anyone but D'ward.

"I saw that temple,” Golbfish said. “If you went there, then how did you catch up with us?"

Dosh twisted his bruised lips into a parody of a smile. “I rode a moa."

"That's impossible!"

"That's what I thought, but it isn't. Not if you ride double. The brute didn't like it, but it brought me."

After a moment, D'ward said, “I'll have to trust you. What does this Prylis person want with me?"

"Dunno. Don't question gods."

"Maybe you should.” D'ward stared down at his knees for a while, swinging his feet. “How far away is this temple?"

Dosh shrugged, wiping his mouth. “Ten miles, maybe. My lancers will take us. You can be back before morning."

"Battlemaster!” Golbfish exclaimed. “You cannot seriously..."

But obviously D'ward was planning to go. How could he trust his life to Dosh Envoy? Ysian did not like Dosh. D'ward had told her why the other men disliked him, but that should not matter to her. There was just something wrong about him—not wrong enough to justify what had been done to him tonight, though.

"I have to risk it, Highness,” D'ward said. “It could be very important. If I'm not back by dawn, lead the army into the pass—and keep going, understand! On no account wait for me or look for me!"

"Battlemaster—"

"Can't pass up a chance to have a god as an ally, can I? Consult Kolgan, but you make the decisions, apart from the orders I just gave you. I'll tell him.” He turned to Dosh, who was trying not to show his pleasure at the Liberator's faith in him. “You coming too? Can you make it in your condition?"

"I'm the toughest bastard in the whole army."

"I know you are. Very well, I'll make my rounds now, and you get yourself cleaned up. Nobody else must know I've gone, or half the Nagians will come after me, no matter what I say! As soon as—"

"Me too!” Ysian said. She was not going to be left behind like a child!

The three men all turned to stare at her; she racked her brains for some convincing reason why she should not be left behind like a child.

"Now, ma'am!” Golbfish said. “This is no expedition for a—"

"Me too! D'ward, you told me where the safest place was!"

The safest place was next to him, he had said, because the Filoby Testament predicted many things he would do before he died. Besides, even if the army escaped back to Nagvale and Joalvale, what would become of her, a Lemodian traitor? Even if she could ever return to Lemod, no decent man would marry her now. Next to D'ward was the only place she wanted to be, ever. She could never tell him that, but if he ever asked...

He was grinning. “Quite sure, Viks'n? It'll mean a couple of hard rides and no sleep all night."

"Quite sure!"

"Thargian patrols may catch us and kill us."

"You don't believe that or you wouldn't be going!"

He chuckled and gave her one of his rare, wonderful smiles that always lit up the world. “Come, then.” He gestured at Dosh. “Help this traveling disaster clean up, will you, Viks'n?” He jumped off the bench and disappeared out the door, leaving the two men staring after him in disbelief.

"What's this Viks'n he calls you?” Dosh demanded.

"Just a pet name."

Golbfish shrugged. “In classical Joalian, ‘viksen’ means ‘courage.’”

Dosh said, “Oh."

Ysian had not known that and felt pleased. D'ward had told her it was the name of a small animal with red hair, and her hair was not red. It was dark auburn.

39

AS THEY CREPT OUT OF THE CAMP, D'WARD TOOK YSIAN'S HAND. She thought progress! Then she decided he was just being protective again, babying her. The only time he had ever touched her was when they had been crossing Lemodwater, escaping from the city. His strength on that occasion had impressed her a lot, but she would not agree that he was necessarily more surefooted in darkness and rough terrain just because he was a man. Not without a demonstration, anyway.

And this could never be a truly romantic stroll, since Trumb had risen, three-quarters full above the branches. His eerie green light made people look like corpses, definitely not romantic. Eltiana's rosy glow was the moonlight for lovers. Besides, Dosh was there too, leading the way. He was moving like a corpse, or at least a half-dead person, and ought to be in bed. So not romantic. More like goose-pimply and exciting. Nevertheless, she let D'ward continue to hold her hand, squeezing his fingers discriminatingly from time to time.

They avoided the sentries’ notice—which annoyed D'ward a lot. Then Dosh said he had better go ahead in case of accidents, and in a minute she had D'ward to herself.

"Are you being romantic or just baby-sistering me again?"

He released her hand. “Sorry."

"Sorry for what? You really are the most maddening man!"

His eyes and teeth showed bright in the moonlight. “Now what have I done?"

"It's what you don't do that bothers me! It is very insulting for a woman to find herself ignored like this when she has made her inclinations perfectly clear!"

"With the knife, you mean? Oh, I certainly understood the message. I have never been so scared in my life!"

"That was before I got to know you. Why don't you even kiss me?"

He sighed. “I've told you, Ysian. I am promised to another. You're a sweet kid and—"

"I am not a kid!"

"And rarely sweet?"

"Exceedingly sweet. Try me."

"I ought to put you over my knee and spank you."

"Promise to take my pants off first?"

"Ysian! You should be ashamed of yourself."

"I am ashamed of myself. I've tried everything I know—” At that point she tripped and almost fell. D'ward did not even try to catch her.

It was humiliating.

After twenty minutes or so, they came to a bridge over a stream. A voice from the shadows up ahead demanded, “Password?"

"Flower of shame,” Dosh replied. “Captain Ksargirk?"

"Yes, sir."

"There are three of us. You take this man. And the, er, boy can go behind Tsuggig. I'll ride with Progyurg."

"His mount is only a five-year-old, sir. Better to—"

"That's an order!"

"Whatever you say, sir."

Ysian grinned to herself, wondering if D'ward noticed how much Dosh enjoyed flaunting his authority; the Thargian certainly had.

A chance to ride a moa had seemed like a big adventure. Moas were big—she had never realized just how big. More Thargians led the steeds in from the darkness. The long necks seemed to stretch halfway up to Trumb, and the saddles were higher than the men's heads, even D'ward's! How was she ever going to get up there? More important, when and how would she come down?

The lancers began hauling on reins, some of them lifting themselves right off the ground and hanging there. The moas snickered complaint, then one by one reluctantly folded their huge legs and sat.

"Ready, boy?” the Captain asked Ysian. “Hold on for your life, now!"

"Er, me? Ready for what?"

The nearest lancer vaulted into his saddle and at the same moment Ksargirk Captain and another man lifted Ysian bodily and more or less threw her at his back. She flung her arms around him and the moa went mad. It leaped straight up into the sky, while the other men cleared rapidly out of the way. It came down and went up again. It shrilled and brayed, kicked and cavorted. She clung grimly to the rider, her face pressed hard against his tunic. She clung so hard she wondered he could breathe, and yet she was bounced madly for what felt like several hours. Sometimes she came down on the moa's hairy rump, sometimes on the edge of the saddle, which hurt. Her legs flapped up and down like wings. Tsuggig cursed a stream of guttural Thargian that she could not understand and the moa ignored. She heard a few cries of pain from Dosh—he really ought not to be doing this in his condition! D'ward made no noise, but soon the whole night seemed to be full of bucking, rampaging moas. Oh, poor Dosh!

All nine moas made a fuss at being mounted, but the three with passengers were by far the worst. The other six calmed down after a few token leaps. Her lancer was the last to bring his mount under control, perhaps because it was the biggest, perhaps because both Dosh and D'ward weighed so much more than she did. When it began to behave itself, tired by its antics, he was given his lance, which one of the other men had been holding for him. Then Ksargirk Captain shouted an order, and the troop set off along the road. Streaked off along the road! Never had Ysian traveled so fast in her life. The moa seemed to cover eight or ten feet in a stride, but its gait was amazingly smooth. Hedges and trees went hurtling past, a blur in the night. The wind blew cold on her face, and although the saddle was too small for two, she soon decided that she was enjoying herself after all.

Clouds had covered most of the green moon when the weary moas strode into the grounds of the monastery. Two elderly monks were waiting with lanterns at the door of the temple, and one of them wore a golden chain, so he must be the abbot. Ksargirk Captain reined in at the steps, and then sprang nimbly from his moa's back. He made a very graceful landing, and saluted the abbot. A lancer dismounted the same way and took the captain's reins. Ysian looked down at the ground thoughtfully.

Tsuggig Lancer twisted around to peer at her. He was older than she had realized, clean shaven in Thargian fashion, but not really ugly. “You're no boy!” He had not spoken a word to her until then.

"I wasn't the last time I looked."

He made a growly sound, and then chuckled. “If you were when you got on, then you might not be now. But you did good. My pleasure. Can you get down without help?"

"Of course.” Ysian pushed herself off and slid spryly down ... down...

Her legs buckled under her and she fell flat on her back, banging her head on the gravel. Bother! The moa shrilled mockingly and shifted its hooves as if readying a kick. She scrambled up and moved to a safe distance to dust herself off, feeling oddly shaky. The ground seemed too close, as though her legs had shrunk, and much of the rest of her felt as if she had been flogged by the public executioner. D'ward had already dismounted and gone to help Dosh. She took a hard look at the forbidding figure of the old abbot and decided he might not approve of women in his monastery. She had better remain a boy.

Four of them went into the temple, for Dosh was barely capable of standing on his own, let alone going anywhere. He gave the abbot some very snappy orders to look after “his” men, then called on Progyurg Lancer to dismount and help him walk. He hobbled inside with one arm draped over the Thargian's shoulders and the other on D'ward's. Ysian followed.

No one had said she shouldn't.

Her experience with temples was limited. This one was small and dark, no more than a barren stone box, chilly and dusty smelling. It was not nearly as impressive as the temple of Eth'l in Lemod. As the lancer brought the lantern closer, the image of the god emerged from the gloom. Being an aspect of the Youth, Prylis was depicted in the nude, but he held a scroll of learning in a strategic position. Progyurg and D'ward lowered Dosh to his knees.

"Good lad,” Dosh whispered. “Leave the light here."

"Sir!” The lancer departed. He was a nice-looking boy, not much older than Ysian herself, she thought. Not as handsome as D'ward, of course. The door thumped closed behind him.

She knelt and was surprised to see D'ward still standing. He had his arms folded and seemed to be shivering. The temple was cool but not as cold as that.

"Holy Prylis!” Dosh proclaimed. “I have done as you commanded."

Silence.

The flame in the lantern danced. Highlights squirmed on the shiny surface of the statue, but nothing else happened.

"I am the Liberator,” D'ward said. “You summoned me."

More silence.

"Perhaps he's asleep,” D'ward said.

"Gods don't sleep!” Ysian protested.

"I'll bet they do!"

"This is annoying!” D'ward added, but she could tell that he was more angry than that. “I have an army to look after and a war to fight. We must get back before dawn. How do you waken a god, Dosh?"

"Nibble his ear?"

"I'd break my teeth. No better ideas? What's behind that door?"

"A little room with a table. Nothing else. It doesn't go anywhere."

"Prylis!” D'ward shouted. “We've come!"

Even more silence.

"What if you try your ritual? No, I suppose not."

"Definitely not!” Dosh groaned and eased himself down into a sitting position. “Looks like we'll have to wait for morning."

"Damned if I will ... Ah!” D'ward walked over to the door in the corner. He opened it, went in, closed it behind him ... and again there was silence.

After a minute or so, Dosh said, “Go and look for him, Viks'n."

"That's not my name! Only D'ward calls me that!"

"Then, my lady Ysian, will you go and look for him—please?"

She clambered to her feet and walked over to the mysterious door in the corner. Behind it there was only darkness. She went back to Dosh and fetched the lantern. Shadows leaped around the edges of her vision as she carried it. As Dosh had said, there was a little room there, with a table piled high with books. Apart from that, there was nothing at all—no other door, no window, and no D'ward.

Ysian and Dosh waited. After half an hour or so, she realized that she could hardly keep her eyes open and he was unconscious, or at least he could only groan when she tried to rouse him. So she went out and asked the abbot to send some monks in to get Dosh—he should be put to bed and cared for, she explained. She told Ksargirk Captain that he and his men could stand down; she asked the abbot, very politely, if she might have something to eat and a place to sleep. She thought nothing more was going to happen before morning.