The Lion Returns

PART EIGHT

Closure

Among human beings, pure love, agape, is rare and mostly fleeting. It is sometimes approached, however, in romantic love, love of an offspring, a parent, a friend…

Ah. I see the term is unfamiliar to you. Agape is love that requires nothing of the loved one, expects no reward, and imposes no conditions at all. The soldier who throws himself on a grenade to save his comrades may well be experiencing a flash of agape.

By human standards, Mary's love for you approached agape, and was remarkably constant. As was Melody's, and Varia's on Farside. You have been thrice blessed, my friend.

Vulkan to Macurdy, on the highway to Teklapori in the spring of 1950

40 Homeward

Macurdy and Varia left Colroi on two excellent horses-officers' horses that had crossed the Ocean Sea from Hithmearc. Macurdy's was exceptionally large; he'd been given the pick of the herd. Tagging behind were two remounts and three packhorses. As usual, Macurdy did without an orderly. For companions, the couple had Vulkan and Blue Wing.

They rode briskly southwestward, headed for the Pomatik River. The countryside was farmland, fertile in season, but now a bitter snowscape. There'd been a new spate of snowy weather, and nothing resembling a thaw. When the wind blew, the snow blew. Thus there were drifts for their horses to wade through. In this they had Vulkan's help, for the boar led, his powerful bulk breaking trail.

The only forest was scattered woodlots, kept by farmers, villages and towns to provide fence rails, lumber, and especially fuelwood. Almost the only remaining buildings were of stone, and they had been burned out. The countryside seemed totally abandoned. It had been heavily picked over earlier by hithik foraging parties passing through. Whatever locals had survived the ravaging hithar had since died, or fled south out of the country.

Blue Wing helped them avoid military company. When he spotted any, he informed Macurdy and Vulkan, who made any necessary course adjustments. The Lion had been enough in the company of fighting men for a while, even those he knew and liked.

Ever curious, Blue Wing questioned Macurdy from time to time as they traveled. Mostly about Farside, and what he'd done there during his years away from Yuulith. Varia, of course, listened in. More than a little of it she hadn't heard before.

She rode beside Curtis and a step back, to watch him without distracting him. He sat relaxed but straight in the saddle, watchful, totally in charge, but with no sign of arrogance. How he'd changed since she'd seduced him that night in Indiana! He'd been a man-what a man!-yet in important respects still a boy. All his twenty-five years had been spent with his parents. Doing man's work almost since boyhood, but their youngest child, the one at home. A mostly happy, full-grown child.

And of course, she told herself, he's thinking how much I've changed. While in Colroi, he'd been heavily involved with the congress. Living together at Aaerodh would complete the healing, the growing together. He'd get to know the household staff, the farm workers, the tenants. Deal with everyday life. In winter she'd teach him to ski the forest trails, show him moose, caribou, and, with luck, jaguar, her favorites.

In summer he'd learn how to farm in the north, and she would teach him sailing. They'd explore the shoreline, visiting the occasional fishing hamlets, and their people. Take him to Cyncaidh Harbor, and the best inn in the empire. They had twenty-five years, more or less, before decline hit her.

Meanwhile he began training her to draw on the Web of the World.

Like Varia, Macurdy had thought about the future, though not in such detail. This in connection with revisiting the past, remembering their brief married life on Farside. They could hardly go back. They'd changed too much, and this was where their children were. But this time they'd complete their lives together.

As they traveled, Vulkan spoke almost not at all. On their fourth night, as they lay in their tent, on and under ylvin furs, Varia commented on it in English. "His aura doesn't indicate unhappiness. It's as if he was meditating, with his body running on its own. Is he often like this?"

"Never for days on end before. When we first met, before I went back to Farside, he was almost talkative. He's told me since, he was excited to find me. He knew right away, he said, that I was his 'mission companion.' He's told me since that we were sent to Yuulith on the same mission." He paused, reflecting. "It seemed to me like a strange thing to say, seeing as how he came here a couple hundred years before I did. Besides, I knew why I'd come to Farside the first time: to get you, and take you home. Although when I was getting ready to leave, I did suppose I'd come back. I even wondered why."

Again he paused, this time longer. "And when I finally did, I knew he'd find me. At first he talked quite a lot again, telling me stuff he wanted me to know or think about. And asking questions, probably more for the things they brought to the surface than for my answers.

"He's never been big on idle conversation though. He's gone for hours sometimes without paying me any attention at all. I got the feeling he didn't want his thoughts interrupted."

She nodded. That was the feeling she'd gotten.

"And what you said about his body running on its own- He told me once that he can meditate while walking. He tells his body what he wants it to do, and then pretty much disconnects. Maybe goes off somewhere mentally, though I suppose he leaves some part of himself in touch. To pop him back if he's needed."

Again Macurdy reflected. "But this time… Might be he's getting ready to leave, now the war's over. Maybe I'll ask him tomorrow."

He didn't though. It seemed to him Vulkan would tell him when he was ready to.

Meanwhile the giant boar had hardly eaten since they'd left Colroi. He'd drawn energy from the Web of the World, and for other nutrients depended largely on reserves. Twice, when they came to an orchard, he'd paused to paw and root for frozen, windfallen apples, Macurdy and Varia helping, digging with mittened hands. That was all the food he'd had. He'd declined to share theirs, or the horses' corn, saying they didn't have any to spare. The supply situation at Colroi had not been good, and Macurdy had declined to take an inordinate share.

So when they reached the forested hills in the south, Blue Wing kept an eye out for game. The first day, he reported a small band of elk pawing for grass in a meadow. Macurdy stalked within bowshot of them, and hit a bull. The band fled into the forest, Vulkan following at a leisurely pace. The elk were in poor shape, and the one Macurdy had hit was now lung-shot. Not being pressed, it soon lay down to rest. When Vulkan arrived, it was barely able to get up. He knocked it back down and killed it with his tusks.

Macurdy skinned the bull, then sliced out some loin cuts for himself and Varia, while Varia made camp. They rested there throughout the day, while Vulkan, with the help of Blue Wing and assorted smaller birds, fed on the carcass.

After his initial feeding, Vulkan volunteered what he'd been doing these several preoccupied days: monitoring another great boar. Communication between them was not, he said, attenuated by distance. It didn't cross physical distance.

"Wait a minute," Macurdy said frowning. "Where is this other boar?"

‹In Hithmearc.›

"Hithmearc?"

‹Strictly speaking, it was initially well east of Hithmearc, but on the same continent. The region is savanna-in German you'd say Waldsteppe -grassland with scattered woods and groves, and woodlands along the rivers. The tribes there hunt, raise foodstuffs on small plots, and occasionally raid one another.

‹They are animists, and regard my, um, kinsman as a deity. His experience and mode of life have been quite different than mine.› He paused. ‹While we were at Colroi, I asked him to find out if the voitar in Hithmearc had been affected by the event at Kurqosz's headquarters.

‹At the time, however, my kinsman was far away from the voitar, and the winter there has also been severe. Nonetheless, he agreed. So he's been traveling, and I with him, experiencing that part of the world.›

Again Vulkan paused, a pause which Macurdy realized was meaningful. ‹Today,› the boar finished, ‹we-he and I-finally encountered something pertaining to my question: report of a plague having swept the Voitusotar. And of hithik uprisings against the survivors. The "plague" must be severe, or the hithar would not have dared.›

The next morning, Macurdy cut off some of the remaining frozen meat and put it in an empty corn sack for Blue Wing. Then they headed south again. A day and a half later they left the Eastern Empire, crossing the Pomatik River on the ice. There was a road along the south shore, and it soon brought them to a small village. They didn't stop there, but rode on west. Shortly after dark they reached a town-Big Fork-where a major tributary entered the Pomatik from the south. Another road ran south along the tributary, and at the junction stood a large, prosperous-looking inn. With a sign reading BATHS.

The stableman accepted the horses, but wanted nothing to do with Vulkan. He realized who Macurdy must be, and who Vulkan was, but he was adamant. Macurdy offered to stable the boar himself, feed and curry him, but the man wouldn't budge. He would not have the giant boar in his stable.

So Macurdy went in and described the problem to the innkeeper, who went out and reminded the stableman in no uncertain terms that it wasn't his stable, but the innkeeper's. Still the man shook his head. He'd quit, he said, if the boar was stabled there. Which would require the innkeeper to find another stableman at once, at night.

Macurdy defused the situation. "Is there another stable in town?" he asked.

There was, at the west end. "Well then," he said, "I'll take him there." Macurdy and Varia rode there with Vulkan, who was accepted willingly if warily by the owner-operator. Before Macurdy left, he had the man's promise to groom the boar.

At the inn, Macurdy bought a string bag of chicken entrails and organs for Blue Wing, the great raven's special order. Spreading his big wings, the bird transferred the foodstuff to the roof, to eat them in the lee of a broad, warm brick chimney. It was, he told Macurdy, where he would spend the night.

While paying for a room, Macurdy asked about the baths. "My big bath's dry," the innkeeper said, "and not near enough hot water to fill it. If I'd known you were coming… There's folks would've come to join you in it, ask questions and hear about the war. But I've got three small baths, and enough hot water for one of them." He shrugged. "Not much good for sharing news or gossip-won't hold more than four people-but it's costly to keep water hot in winter. And this winter there's been little traffic, plus what there is don't have much money." He paused thoughtfully. "We heard, a few days back, that the war's over, and it was you that won it. So for you I'll fill one of them free."

"That's generous of you. We'd like that."

"We?"

"My wife and I."

"Together?" The man frowned. "Then I guess you won't want any company. Well…" He let it go at that.

After being shown the bath, Macurdy and Varia went into the taproom for supper. Word of them had spread, and the taproom was packed with folks who'd come in for a pint, to see the Lion for themselves, and ask questions. It took quite awhile to finish supper.

At length Macurdy excused himself, and he and Varia went to their room. There they dug out their cleanest clothes and went to the bath.

The townsfolk, walking home, tended to talk as much about the Lion's beautiful wife as about the Lion himself. A few had seen a Sister before, but this one, they agreed, had to be the loveliest of them all.

41 Hoofprints

The night after his father sent him away, Tsulgax had not camped. He'd kept riding, pressing hard. It was almost the only way he knew to travel when alone. Occasionally he ate saddle rations. He first realized something might be wrong when he came to a wagon train stopped in the road, its voitu commander dead. The mind of its senior hithik officer had been frozen with fear. Would he be blamed? He hadn't been able to decide whether to continue or turn back.

The corpse's grotesque features suggested it had died of something very extraordinary. Tsulgax ordered the wagon master to continue west. The hithu, of course, didn't argue. He gave orders to his trumpeter, the man blew the signal, and the wagons began to roll westward again.

The rakutu encountered another train about sunup. Its voitu had also died the night before. This wagon master had sent several of the escort back to Camp Merrawin with the body, and continued west.

Tsulgax rode on. It was evening when he reached headquarters at Camp Merrawin. There all the voitar had died, all at once, all seemingly in a terrible spasm of pain. Two of the rakutik guard had died at the same time, and apparently in the same way. Both of the dead rakutur, he was told, were cavalry communicators-connected to the hive mind.

Everyone there knew who Tsulgax was-who and whose-and as the senior rakutu, he outranked hithar of whatever rank. Thus he moved into the late General Trumpko's quarters and had a fire lit in the fireplace, while the rakutik lieutenant who'd been in charge briefed him on events.

Not much of it was useful. But there was, Tsulgax learned, a husky guerrilla held prisoner there, unwounded but confused, apparently from a blow to the head. Trumpko had ordered him kept alive for interrogation. Tsulgax had the captive brought to him, asked him several questions, and got no useful answers. He then ordered the man to strip, and when he was reluctant, slapped him with a sound like a pistol shot, sending him sprawling. "Strip him," Tsulgax ordered.

When the man was naked, Tsulgax looked him over coldly. "Tie him to a tree. As he is. Leave him there for an hour, then question him. If his answers don't satisfy you, leave him there till morning."

As the two rakutik guards dragged the half-ylf from the room, Tsulgax examined the man's sheep-lined farmer coat. In his mind, an idea had sprouted. He would, he decided, order the rest of the man's gear brought to him in the morning.

Then he went to the command messhall. Supper had been eaten, and the kitchen and dishes cleaned and put in order. Then the hithik kitchen staff had gone to bed. Tsulgax went to the mess sergeant and physically dragged him out of his blankets. "Stand up!" he barked.

Big-eyed, the man got to his feet, to stand there in his winter underwear.

"I am now the senior officer here. I've been riding for two days and two nights, eating saddle rations. Now I want a real meal. Hot! You have half an hour. If it is unsatisfactory, I will punish you personally."

The sergeant saluted. "Yes, Captain! Right away, Captain!" He looked around at the other kitchen staff, who were themselves out of bed now, and began snapping orders of his own. "Eno! Build up the fire! Oswal, bring the roast from the cold box! Fiskin, bring the pudding!"

Tsulgax turned and stalked from the room.

An hour later he fell asleep at the table, glutted. Informed by the mess sergeant, two rakutur supported him to the commander's quarters and got him into bed. He never knew it.

When Tsulgax awoke, fourteen hours later, he was ready to act. He knew that without the voitar, the hithar would not fight. Under rakutik pressure they might go out to fight, but they'd surrender on contact. He'd always known that, but the knowledge had been meaningless, because the voitar had been there.

Now it was pertinent. And at the same time unimportant to Tsulgax, because his goal had changed.

What he needed now was information. He didn't know how he'd get it, but it would come. He'd go out and let things happen, and it would come.

The mess sergeant was a resourceful man. Months earlier, foraging parties had brought him a number of ducks. He'd had a shed built for them, with nesting boxes and a brick stove. Thus the ranking officers sometimes got eggs for breakfast.

Given Tsulgax's disposition, his breakfast was to be prepared immediately when he got up, and served as quickly as possible. Even if it was nearly noon, which it was. Then he had eggs and bacon to start his day, and hot bread with butter. (The mess sergeant also had a cow shed.)

Not that Tsulgax savored his food. He ate quickly, voraciously, and carelessly. When he'd finished, he tried on the guerrilla's clothing. The breeches wouldn't do; the waist was all right, but they were too tight for his thighs and buttocks. The shirt was snug as well, so he had the commander's orderly-now his orderly-bring clothes from hithik supply. The plain brown hithik uniforms were less distinctive than rakutik uniforms.

The important items were the guerrilla's heavy farmer coat and cap. The cap wasn't designed to accommodate rakutik ears, but it was large enough to serve. His own boots and mittens he kept. They were warmer.

Given his now-assumed role as a guerrilla separated from his unit, a packhorse was an anomaly. He took one anyway. He didn't intend to get any closer to enemy troops than he needed to. And a packhorse would allow him to take an officer's shelter tent, an ax, abundant corn for horsefeed, and three weeks field rations for himself-dried beef, potatoes, bread, and lard.

By the time he was ready to leave, an outpost had reported an enemy patrol scouring the encampment. Tsulgax ordered the hithik General Gruismak to prepare a defense. He had no illusion that there'd actually be a defense, once he was gone, but the order was expected, so he gave it.

He himself did nothing till dusk. Then, still wearing his rakutik jacket and cap, he rode back westward. But not on the road. When he'd passed the last outpost and entered the forest, he changed into the farmer coat and cap, stowing his rakutik gear in a bag on his packhorse.

Mostly he stayed on or near Road B. Thus on the third morning, he knew when large columns passed going eastward. Columns that could only be from the Deep River Line. From the shelter of a tamarack fringe, he watched across open bog as they passed: units of armed ylver, followed by thousands of hithik prisoners, their hands tied in front of them.

Late that afternoon he reached the clearing. For the first time in his memory, Tsulgax was astonished. There weren't even rubble piles, only broken stones, without one on top of another. There were, however, dead horses and dead men, covered by new snow. He brushed one off. A rakutu. A saber had struck him across the back of the neck, above his cuirass, severing the spine.

Tsulgax rode across the middle of the clearing. There were many bodies toward the center, mostly rakutur. But he felt no grief. Even among the rakutur he'd been a loner.

And now he knew, really knew the situation. There was not the smallest doubt that his father was dead, and that only the hithar remained of his army. Tsulgax spat in the snow.

He also knew, or thought he did, what had happened. The great sorcery his father had planned had backfired, and Kurt Montag was the cause. He'd aborted it the first night, had actually stolen the Crystal of Power. On the second night he'd done… Tsulgax expected never to know what. But even as a prisoner, Montag had done something to cause this. Tsulgax had suspected it when he'd encountered the second wagon train with its voitik commander dead. Twice was no accident. He'd known it at Camp Merrawin, when he learned that everyone there, connected with the hive mind, had died the same way.

Montag!

He didn't wonder how a physically and mentally handicapped German had come to Vismearc. How an inept psychic could block the sorcery of one whom the hive mind had chosen the next Crystal Lord. Montag had come, and done whatever it was he'd done.

Nor did he wonder if Montag had died in the cataclysm. It was logical to assume it, but Tsulgax felt sure the German was alive. The question was where, and how to get at him.

The rakutu followed the enemy forces to Colroi. Their hithik prisoners far outnumbered them, but the prisoners had been disarmed, of course, and their officers segregated into separate encampments. Not that it made any difference; there was no fight left in any of them. Like most of the victors, they camped not in the ruins, but in the snowblown fields nearby, in squad tents. More snow had fallen, and when the wind blew, the snow blew, along the surface in a ground blizzard. It sifted into everything, including their tents. They were defeated and demoralized, and many were sick. They were fed twice a day: cornmeal mush with hard bread and lard for breakfast, and for supper, boiled potatoes with hard bread and lard. As bread was abundant, the prisoners would stash chunks of it in their jackets, to gnaw between meals with teeth that were loosening in their gums.

Tsulgax had no sympathy for them. They were hithar, no better than dogs.

Most of the ylvin army was camped in the open too. But their mood was grim, not demoralized. They were given more wood for their warming fires, and three meals a day, with meat or cheese, and beans.

Tsulgax knew, because he ate army meals, insinuating himself into raider mess lines. Always taking extra, and squirreling away what he didn't eat, to replenish the rations he'd taken with him from Camp Merrawin and used on the road.

Many of the raider forces wore uniforms of various sorts, but some, mostly ylver, were dressed in farmer clothes, with odds and ends of hithik uniforms. And single large mess crews served several units.

There were raiders with uniforms resembling the rakutur's. Some were dressed so much like rakutur, at first sight he thought they were. Turncoats! But listening at their fringe, he discovered they spoke Vismearcisc among themselves. They were, he supposed, some ylvin strain.

He did not live with any of them; he wanted no friendly approaches. His Vismearcisc was notably accented, and if they ever saw his ears… When speaking was unavoidable, he feigned a speech impediment, and impaired hearing. The surly personality was genuine. On his first night there, he'd snooped the ruins of Colroi, and selected a roofless, burnt-out brick shed to protect himself from wind. Then he set up his shelter tent in it, to protect himself from snowfall.

Between times he circulated on the fringe of things, watching for a glimpse either of Montag, his father's woman, or a giant boar. And seeing nothing. After several days he began to wonder if they were actually there, or if he'd assumed wrongly. But he continued as he was. From what he overheard, the purpose of this long cold wait was to decide on peace terms. So far as Tsulgax could tell, some general called the Lion was in charge. Why it should take so long, he had no idea. The enemy were the winners, after all. Tsulgax had no experience of government except the voitik imperial autocracy. He was not familiar with politics beyond differences of opinion. The voitik hive mind was not compatible with factionalism.

Another week passed, and several days more. It was Vulkan who gave Macurdy away. Tsulgax spotted the boar from a distance, beside a large man on horseback. Trotting through clots of soldiers, Tsulgax got nearer, improving his view. On the other side of the tall man was a woman bundled in furs. The man was in a uniform Tsulgax couldn't identify. And they were followed by packhorses and remounts; they were leaving Colroi. Along the road, men called and waved: "The Lion! The Lion!" It was the man with the woman and boar they were waving at.

Tsulgax couldn't see their faces. He speeded up, dodging among soldiers, trying to get a better angle. Finally he took a chance, crossing the road behind the threesome, guessing they'd turn south at the crossroads. They did, and he saw both of them from little more than a hundred feet.

There was no doubt. The man was Montag, and the woman was his father's woman, the one called Varia.

From there, with his speed, he might have-might have-taken them by surprise. Cut them off, and attacked with his saber. But there was the beast, the giant boar with its tusks. And soldiers on and along the road.

And this was the real Montag, formidable and dangerous. The lame German, slow, dull-witted and obsequious, had been a sham, a clever act.

He needed a horse again. He'd been required to turn his in to one of the horse herds, where they were fed and guarded. So he went to the sergeant in charge, and asked for one back.

"You need a note from your commanding officer," the sergeant said.

Tsulgax had no notion of how to write Vismearcisc, but he didn't argue. It would get him nowhere. Nor did he attack the sergeant, for there were other herd guards nearby. He simply nodded, stammered his thanks, and left.

He wasn't aware of the sergeant's gaze following him. The ylf gestured with his head, and spoke to one of his men. "Flann, take Cailon and follow that man. See where he goes-to what outfit. Then come back and tell me. There's something strange about him. No one talks like that without a harelip, and he doesn't have one." He paused, frowning. "I want to see what he looks like without a cap. See what his ears look like."

Flann's eyes widened, then narrowed. "Right away, Sergeant," he said.

The two ylver followed Tsulgax at a distance, to the nearby burned-out ruins, content to keep him in sight. Then they hurried to close the distance, and saw him enter a shed. Flann sent Cailon to tell the sergeant; then, slipping from cover to cover, he approached Tsulgax's lair.

As Tsulgax packed his gear, his mind was on Montag. The German had taken the south highway. He would too, watching for tracks leaving the road. If any did, and they included cloven tracks, he'd follow them.

When his gear was packed, Tsulgax wrapped it in his shelter tent, then lashed it onto a makeshift pack frame he'd made. He wished he had more rations. He would, he decided, go to one of the cook tents. Work or guard details often went there for early supper. He'd attach himself to one, eat, stash more food inside his coat, then try some other herd for a horse.

Pretending a speech impediment had been working. Now he'd try something more ambitious with it: claim he had a verbal order to ride somewhere; Balralligh. Hopefully that would get him not only a horse and saddle, but a sack of corn and a nosebag.

He shouldered his pack and went out the door.

"Hoy!" a voice called, and an ylf appeared around the corner of a building not thirty yards away. "The sergeant sent me after you. He says he's got a horse for you."

Tsulgax never broke stride, simply veered off toward the man. "Good," he lisped, "I knew he would change his thought of that." He didn't draw his saber till he was within three yards of the ylf. Then the move was quick. The ylf, however, had been distrustful, and his response was equally quick: he sprang to one side, and his saber was out almost as his feet hit the ground.

Tsulgax changed tack instantly. With the bulky pack on his back, he was at serious risk against a skilled swordsman. Instead he took off running, not toward the encampment, but eastward, away from it.

The ylf stared after him, astonished at the man's running speed. Even with a pack, he told himself, the stinkard could easily outrun anyone in the company.

Instead of giving chase, he turned and trotted off to inform his sergeant. Halfway there he met Cailon, leading four other men with a corporal in charge. He told them what had happened. Together they went to the shed and examined it, finding nothing of use. Then they followed the fugitive's tracks. His running strides were well more than an arm span long-six feet or more.

"Carrying a pack, you say?"

"A big one, corporal."

"That's amazing. He must be half voitu."

"That's what they say the rakutur are."

The tracks curved increasingly southeastward, then hit the east-west highway, where they were lost among others. The corporal stopped, "We might as well go back," he said. "It's a matter for the base provost now."

At the east-west highway, Tsulgax turned west, slowing to a jog, then a walk as he entered Colroi's unburned section. Best not to seem in a hurry. Beyond it was the great encampment. He'd been thinking in terms of waiting around for a meal, and to try stealing a horse after dark. Now he changed his mind. The sky was cloudy. Night might bring snow, and bury or obscure the boar's tracks. It was best to continue afoot. Montag wouldn't be traveling fast. He had packhorses and the woman with him. They'd camp early. He might even catch them tonight.

At the crossroads he turned south, as Montag had. When he was well away from soldiers, he again broke into a lope that, despite his pack, a cross-country champion would envy. At dusk he struck a large number of tracks that turned off westward on a minor road. If any were cloven, they'd been eradicated by horses, as they'd been on the highway. Nonetheless he didn't hesitate; he too turned west. If asked, he couldn't have said why. Half an hour later, several sets of tracks left the road. One set was of cloven hooves.

By that time Tsulgax was getting sore, stiffening up. He slowed to a walk, and before long was limping. In Hithmearc, running was almost as much a way of life for rakutur-even rakutik cavalry-as for voitar. He'd never found himself out of shape before, but he'd heard of it, and realized the source of his pain. Except briefly, he'd kept to a pace that didn't tax his strong rakutik lungs and heart; he'd thought that would be slow enough. But now his thighs hurt. His buttocks hurt. His calves and shins hurt. Severely!

Ahead and to his right, half a mile or so, was a sizable bivouac-two companies of Kormehri raiders headed for home, thougn Tsulgax didn't know it. It wouldn't have made any difference if he had.

Twilight had died, and their cooking fires were like small, yellow-red beacons in the night. He left the cloven tracks and angled toward them. Even though the night was cloudy, the visibility was good. The snow reflected what light there was, and formed an excellent backdrop for seeing. So he moved slowly, in a deep crouch, every step painful.

At two hundred yards he paused, sizing up the camp. A few men still stood or squatted by fires, but most were out of sight in their tents. Their horse herd was at the west end, almost certainly guarded. But with the war over, watchfulness was no doubt poor.

He'd seen a lot of those tents lately. Squad tents, but small. Crowded as they were, would the men keep their tack with them at night? If not, where would they keep it? If necessary he could ride bareback, but he'd never learned to control a horse with just his knees and weight. He'd need a bridle.

Later he could enter a tent and steal what he needed, but now the men would still be awake, talking. Meanwhile he'd scout the herd. He angled toward it, covering the last hundred yards on hands and knees, through dry snow that largely hid him.

There were no picket ropes. The horses were loose, their hind legs hobbled instead of their front, so they could paw the snow for grass. Thus they'd dispersed somewhat. Even allowing for packhorses, it was a very large herd.

He could see one mounted herdsman, and was sure there were others. One tent was larger than the squad tents, and stood a little apart from them, nearer the herd. A separate tent for the herdsmen? It seemed doubtful in so small a camp, and there was no dying fire in front of it.

Tsulgax was seldom emotional, but this sparked a moment's excitement. The one herdsman he could see sat in the saddle with his back to him. Even so, Tsulgax crawled to where some horses obscured the view. Then standing, he walked to the anomalous tent and ducked inside. The open door let in enough light to show him tack for several horses, and numerous sacks of corn, several of them open. It took him little time to gather a saddle and blanket, a bridle, nosebag and quirt. He also stuffed an empty grain bag in his coat, and took another one half full.

Then quietly but not stealthily, he lugged them limping to the herd. There he chose a large gelding, threw the blanket on its back and saddled the animal. It snorted softly, but stood relaxed. The unfamiliar saddle puzzled Tsulgax only briefly. Then he tied his bedroll to it with the sack of corn on top. He almost abandoned the pack frame, then put it on his back again, just in case.

"Hey! What's going on there?"

The voice was some distance off. Tsulgax didn't answer, didn't speed up. He gave the saddle girth a final pull, then stepped to the front of the animal and slipped the bridle over its head.

The call was repeated, less distant now. "You! What're you doing?"

Tsulgax buckled the throat latch and snapped the bit in place. Then he unbuckled and removed the hobbles.

"Sergeant of the guard!" The voice boomed it. "Someone's messing with a horse out here!"

Shoving the hobbles into the game pocket of his farmer coat, the rakutu pulled himself painfully into the saddle. Then he stung the horse's rump with his quirt, and dug its barrel sharply with his heels.

It started forward at a brisk trot, passing among other horses, which moved out of its way. When it reached the open, Tsulgax slashed it hard with his quirt. It broke into a gallop, its rider bent low over its withers, lashing it. Shouts from behind him energized his quirt, but the twang of a bowstring was far too distant for him to hear.

He steered the animal on an angle to intersect Montag's tracks, certain the herdsmen would pursue him. But he heard no more shouts, and shortly after he hit Montag's trail, heard a trumpet call. He looked back. There'd been the start of pursuit, but the riders had stopped.

For a moment they watched from a distance, then turned and rode back to their bivouac.

Kormehri companies were well disciplined, and these had more than enough horses-much of their herd was spoils, awarded them by the congress. And god knew how long it would take to run the thief down. They could easily wait where they were till noon the next day for the pursuit to get back, and then maybe empty-handed. Not that their commander thought all this out, but the rationale was there, behind his order to his trumpeter to call back the pursuers. The lost horse could be charged to whatever sentry the provost held responsible.

He might have decided differently had he known a sentry's arrow had struck the horse. It had been hit high on the rump, and there was not much bleeding. The drops of red-looking black by night-were not seen in the hoof-churned snow.

Tsulgax soon suspected, however, for after he slowed the horse to a trot, it began to limp. He looked back, and seeing the arrow, stopped to investigate. It had struck from long range, and penetrated only a few inches. Tsulgax tried to jerk it out. Fortunately for him, the horse's resulting kick only grazed him, the hock striking him with enough force to knock him down, but doing no harm. Limping, he had to follow the animal on foot a grueling half mile before it let itself be caught.

He didn't try to do anything more about the arrow, simply hauled himself back into the saddle and continued on Montag's trail. Later that night he passed near a large woodlot, and detoured into it to make camp. There he found a sugarhouse. Stopping by it, he buckled a nosebag of corn on the horse, and hobbled the animal. Then, with his fighting knife, he cut the arrow shaft short, hoping to lessen the movement of the head in the animal's croup. If the limp got too bad, he thought, he'd hobble it front and back, and cut the arrowhead out.

Finally he built a fire beneath the big cast iron sugar kettle, and made his bed. Being empty, the kettle heated red hot, and helped warm the shack. Twice in the night he roused, and built up the fire again. If it weren't for the pain that accompanied every movement, it would have been the best night he'd had for weeks. Instead it was the worst.

Meanwhile he abandoned the thought of catching up to Montag quickly. If it happened, well and good. But persistence was his strategy now. A lame man on a lame horse had no choice.

In the morning the horse seemed almost as lame as Tsulgax, who didn't try to hurry it. From time to time he got off and walked, limping badly, hoping to regain some mobility in his own legs, as well as rest his mount. They'd been on the trail about two hours when they passed his quarry's campsite of the night before. That evening, Tsulgax camped in a streamside woods, and rubbed the animal down with the empty corn sack. He himself was still about as sore and stiff as he'd been that morning.

Several days later, at dusk, Tsulgax reached the Pomatik. By that time he was walking naturally, with only a shadow of soreness remaining. The horse still limped, though perhaps not as badly. Tsulgax got down, removed saddle and bridle, then shouldered his pack. He left the animal with what little was left of the corn lying on the rubdown sack, and crossed the river on foot, at an easy lope. Ahead he could see the river road and a farm, the farmhouse showing candlelight at a window. He'd stop, make sure his quarry wasn't there, and beg a meal from the farmer. He didn't know what kind of police they had in this country-probably not much-but it seemed best not to murder anyone needlessly.

42 Confrontation

It was near midnight when Tsulgax reached the town of Big Fork. Its inn was dark, except for lamplight from the windows of a single ground-floor room. The kitchen, he supposed. He found the front door locked and without a knocker, so he pounded with his fist.

No one answered, and to waken sleeping guests by shouting and hammering did not suit his purpose, so he went to the stable. It was dark inside, but by leaving the door open, enough snowlight entered that he could dimly discern the layout. In the front was storage, and access to the hayloft. Beneath the loft, down each side, were narrow box stalls, dimly perceived. Body heat from the horses had warmed the place appreciably.

One of the front stalls held not a horse and manger, but a pallet on hay, and a man sitting up beneath blankets. "Close the humping door!" he said. "It's cold enough in here!"

Tsulgax spoke with his feigned impediment. "I can't see with it closed."

To the stableman, the intruder loomed large. So he got to his feet; he was tall himself, and strong. "What do you want?" he asked.

"I look for man. Big, with beautiful red-hair woman. And giant swine."

"You mean the Lion of Farside. He's in the inn. But the boar's across town. I wouldn't stand for him in my stable."

The Lion. Tsulgax had never heard the name "Farside," but considering where Montag was from, the meaning was obvious. "What room?" he asked.

"How would I know?" The stableman gestured at the stalls. "These are the only rooms I got anything to do with. The roomers ain't much for conversation, but they don't argue or complain, either. And they don't leave the damn door open." He squinted hard at Tsulgax, trying to make out features. No way in hell in the darkness. "You a friend of his?"

"Yes. I from far place. In west. I was in war too."

The stableman took off his stocking cap and scratched shaggy hair. "In that case you can sleep in the hayloft. Got blankets?"

"Yes."

"If you need to shit or piss, use the manure pile out back. Now close the damn door!"

The trespasser went to it, but stepped outside before he closed it. The horse turd, thought the stableman. The barn ain't good enough for him. After a good scratch, he lay back down. He hated being wakened in the middle of the night. With all the hungry cooties, it took awhile to get back to sleep.

Tsulgax started back to the inn. The lamplight was gone from the kitchen windows. Then someone came around one end of the building and started toward the road. The rakutu cut him off, and the person stopped.

"You got bed I can rent?" Tsulgax asked, closing in on him.

The person was a kitchen boy in early adolescence, pale and worried looking. "I don't know," he said, then added, "we're closed."

Tsulgax leaned in the boy's face. "What room is Lion in?"

"Lion? The Lion of Farside? I- He- I don't know, but probably one of the single rooms in front. The rooms in back have pallets on the floor, several in each. I don't think he'd want one of them."

"Let me in. I pay. Stay in back room." The rakutu put a large right hand in a pocket. "Got money."

"I can't. It's all locked up."

Tsulgax's left hand shot out and grabbed the boy by the jacket front, jerking him close. This time when he spoke, he dropped the lisp. "You have key. Let me in." He glared intently into the boy's frightened face.

The lad nodded, scared half to death. "Yessir," he said, "since you're a friend of the Lion."

Together they walked around to the kitchen door, which the boy unlocked and held open.

"Go in," said Tsulgax, motioning.

"Sir, I need to go home. My ma'am'll worry if I…"

Tsulgax grabbed the boy's jacket again, thrust him through the door, then closed it behind them. Enough snowlight entered the windows to see by, dimly. "Get candle. Light it."

It seemed to the boy that something very bad was going to happen; he barely whispered his "Yessir." Taking a long splinter from a match pot, he lit it at the fireplace, and with it lit the large candle in a pewter candleholder. The man took the candle from him, then gripped the boy by the jacket again, this time a shoulder.

"Take me to stairs," the man said. "Do not fear. I not harm you."

The boy obeyed. When they got there, the stranger set the candle aside, grabbed him by the throat and crushed his trachea with his thumbs, holding him till he was surely dead.

Macurdy awoke slowly. For a moment he assumed Varia had lit their lamp, perhaps to use the chamber pot. Then realizing she was still in bed beside him, he sat up-to see a large figure looming over him. He felt the jab of a saber through the blankets.

"Lie back down, Montag!"

The order was murmured in thickly accented German. Montag! Macurdy's skin crawled.

"Curtis," Varia said muzzily, "is anything the matter?"

"It's Tsulgax," he answered.

She sat up as if propelled by a spring. "What?"

"He is right." Tsulgax spoke Yuultal this time. "He killed my father and stealed you." He did not remove his eyes from Macurdy's, or his sword tip from Macurdy's belly. "Get from bed, woman. Clothe yourself for travel. If you disobey me, or make difficulty, I kill your lover. Pin him to bed, then kill you. You follow my orders, you live. And he live for a while."

Carefully and without speaking, she slid naked out of bed. Tsulgax gave her not a glance.

Macurdy had examined the weapon threatening him. Single-edged. But even so, held strongly in a determined hand, with the point already in his skin, there was no chance in hell he could knock it away. The angle of thrust would drive it through his guts and into his chest.

"You think I killed your father?" he asked. "How could I have done that, tied and gagged, with a rakutu sitting by me?"

"It is no difference how. You killed him. I told him in Bavaria you were danger to him. Told him again at Voitazosz. He not believed. Now it is happened."

"You thought that even in Bavaria?"

"I never trusted Nazis. If you get what you want, you kill us all. And destroy gate."

"I was no Nazi. I was their enemy. A spy. The Nazis are dead now. My people destroyed them. We had a greater sorcery than the Nazis and their allies."

Tsulgax snorted. "Farside people no sorcerers. No…" He groped for the word. "No talent." Then he spoke to Varia without looking at her. "You ready to leave, woman?"

"I'm ready to scream," she said.

"Do not. It is no good. At first sound, Lion is dead. Then you. You do what I say, I not kill you."

Macurdy spoke as if Tsulgax's exchange with Varia hadn't occurred. "You loved your father, didn't you?" he asked.

"Don't talk to me about love my father! You love yours? My father always kind to me. To Rillissa and me, but more to me. Me he keeped by him. It all right that I not have hive mind. He kind to me anyway. He tell me, Tsulgax, we be always together, you and me."

"And you think I spoiled that."

"I kill you for it. But not yet."

"What do you have in mind? A fight hand to hand? Or a duel, with sabers?"

Tsulgax snorted scornfully. "Duel too quick. I…"

There was a noise from below, hard to identify. Tsulgax frowned. His eyes flicked aside for just an instant.

Varia heard it too. "Excuse me, Tsulgax," she said. "Shall I wear boots for riding or for walking?"

There was a hard heavy thudding from the stairs, then the hall. Tsulgax frowned, and the saber tip bit deeper as his eyes jerked toward the door. Macurdy tensed, readying himself.

Abruptly two hard hooves struck the door, driving it crashing out of the frame, and Vulkan's monstrous head and neck came through, great tusks clacking. Tsulgax jumped back, eyes wide, saber raised in defense. As he did, Macurdy threw off the cover and gestured. Tsulgax screamed, throwing the saber from him. It landed on the foot of the bed, red hot, and the blanket began at once to smolder. At the same time, Macurdy rolled out of bed, into the knees of the distracted Tsulgax. The rakutu jumped back, drawing his belt knife as Macurdy scrambled to his feet. Another gesture, and the knife dropped to the floor-just as Varia, with all her strength, slammed the rakutu on the head from behind, with a heavy oak stool.

She'd always been strong; given the circumstance, her strength was tripled. Tsulgax fell. Ignoring him now, she stepped to the window and pushed it open. Then without pausing, she dragged the covers from the bed, flames flickering at one end. Wadding them roughly, she thrust them out the window, and they fell to the snowy ground. Then she poured the water pitcher onto the featherbed, which was beginning to smolder and stink.

There were excited voices in the hall. With Tsulgax down, Vulkan withdrew his bulk from the doorway and backed toward the stairwell. Wearing a nightshirt to his shanks, the innkeeper looked into the room. Guests peered in past him, their eyes on Macurdy, who was bent buck-naked over a figure on the floor. Before raising the unconscious rakutu, he removed the winter cap, exposing the ears. They were more than four inches long, covered with fine, curly red hair. The terminal three inches were free, voitulike.

Macurdy turned to the men in the doorway. "It's a rakutu," he said matter-of-factly. "Half-blood voitu. He's the son of the invader's commander, Crown Prince Kurqosz. I didn't know he was still alive. He tracked me down to kill me, for revenge."

He turned to Varia. "I'm pretty sure he's dead. His skull's caved in, and stuff's run out his nose and ears."

Varia looked ill but didn't say a thing. Macurdy dragged Tsulgax into the hallway and talked briefly with the innkeeper, who dragged the wet and stinking featherbed away, returning shortly with one in decent shape, and fresh bedding.

Bidding his host goodnight, Macurdy went back into hus room and closed the door. With three volunteers, the innkeeper lugged the corpse of Tsulgax to the woodshed. It would freeze solid by morning.

The next day, Macurdy arranged with the town magistrate for a funeral pyre for Tsulgax. He also hired the town's principal shaman to preside. When the magistrate asked why, all Macurdy could say was, he'd known the rakutu a long time, and owed it to him.

43 Love Stories

The next day at the crossroads, Vulkan said goodbye to Macurdy. ‹I discern no vectors that require my attention, and I am quite sure the voitik threat is past.› He paused. ‹I will not forget you, my friend.›

Macurdy felt very sober. "What will you do?"

‹I will retire. I am done in the world, and I have been away from home a long time.›

Macurdy nodded. For Vulkan, retirement would involve dying, leaving his body and going-wherever it was he'd go. "Will I see you again?" he asked.

Vulkan transmitted a sense of grinning. ‹Of course. Though I will not be in the guise of a great boar. And you will not be in the guise of Curtis Macurdy. But we will know each other.› His eyes were red and his tusks fearsome, but his gaze was benevolent. ‹Do not dwell on the matter. When the time comes, it will seem entirely natural and good. Meanwhile think of me as I am now. And I will remember you as you are now.›

He turned to Blue Wing, who sat atop a packhorse. ‹And you, my friend… we too shall meet.› Then he met Varia's solemn gaze. ‹As for you, Varia Macurdy, your strength is equal to your beauty. You have undergone much, survived much, and done nothing discreditable. You have my admiration as well as my love.›

Then the giant boar turned and trotted south on the crossroad, his brush of a tail skyward. As they watched, he winked out of sight. Macurdy wasn't sure whether he'd activated his cloak, or if he'd ceased to exist in Yuulith.

After a minute, he and Varia rode on westward, subdued and thoughtful. Their remounts and packhorses followed on the lead rope. Blue Wing flew ahead to scout. It was another cold day, though not cold enough that the horses were frosted with their own breath.

With the peace agreement signed, the great raven network had disassembled. But a precedent had been set, and the experience had enriched the great raven hive mind. Thus Blue Wing hadn't hesitated to relay a message for Varia, to the western emperor at Duinarog. She would, she said, appreciate a letter of credit, and gave her itinerary. Macurdy had already sent a message to Amnevi at the Cloister. He'd like payment for his services, if possible to be picked up at the Sisterhood embassy at Indervars. He'd suggested twenty gold imperials, a remarkably modest claim. He'd already informed her that he had married Varia, Lady Cyncaidh.

Upstream, the West Fork grew ever smaller. Within a few days, they'd crossed over into the Big River drainage, then rode south to Indervars. There they stayed a night at the palace, whose queen was a Sister. The next morning, the Sisterhood's ambassador gave Macurdy twenty gold imperials. After signing for them, he left again with Varia for Duinarog.

There was a lot of time to talk, to explore many subjects. Varia told him a great deal about Cyncaidh, whom she had indeed loved very much. She described in detail the ylf lord's rescue of her, and the long ride to Aaerodh. And their years together. Several times, in the telling, she shed tears, but none for having killed him.

It seemed to Macurdy the ylf would be a hard act to follow.

He in turn told Varia about Melody-how they'd met, their travels, their extremely odd courtship, and their months together on the farm in Tekalos. Her passion, her humor, her temper-her recklessness. And his devastation at her death. In the telling, he came to understand Melody-and the two of them together-better than ever before.

He also filled Varia in more fully on his years in Oregon, and in the army. And all one afternoon reminisced about Mary, Fritzi, and Klara, but especially Mary.

When he'd finished, Varia said it seemed to her that Mary was the great love of his life.

He didn't reply to that until that evening in the King's Inn, at the town of White Oak, in the Outer Marches. There they didn't have to spell the bed, the bedding, and the walls to protect themselves from vermin. The bedding was boiled after each change of guests. The bedroom walls and floors had been scrubbed with a liquid whose piney pungency was still discernible when they moved in. And with every change of guests, the thick featherbeds were spelled by an elderly half-ylf with a fair talent.

The food was superior, too.

But the high point was the bath. The King's Inn was famous for its baths. Varia had been there before, as Cyncaidh's captive. Twenty minutes alone in a bath, and getting clean clothes, had been a major step in her healing. At that time there'd been only two baths, but with the expansion of trade after Quaie's War, a short new wing had been built, all baths. The smaller, of which there were half a dozen, could accommodate four persons. The three larger, the innkeeper said proudly, seated eight each, and the largest, sixteen easily. When the demand was high, the water heaters burned upwards of two cords of oak a day.

Given the terrible winter, and the roads, there weren't many travelers. But what there were took the baths, if they had the money. If for no other reason than to soak in hot water after a day of freezing on horseback.

Varia and Macurdy spent a sybaritic hour in one. It was then he talked about Mary again. "You said she was the great love of my life. I'll tell you, it was beautiful being married to her. She was the sweetest woman, and the best human being on God's green Earth. On my dying day, I'll say the same thing. I wish…" Grief swelled, and he paused till it subsided. "She'd have made a wonderful mother."

They sat silent a long minute, holding hands and soaking. Then Macurdy continued. "While Melody, strong as she was, and tough, and weapons-skilled-she was the most… vulnerable's the word. She didn't hold anything back. To be loved by her, so wholeheartedly like that-that was a privilege. Sometimes it awed me. And humbled me."

He reached, touched Varia's cheek gently. "But when it's all over, and time to die, I have no doubt. It's you will be the great love of my life. The first, the last, and the greatest."

Then they donned their rented robes and went back to their room.