The Wizard

Chapter 39. It Thirsts

From time to time Wistan and I met others on the road, often people fleeing the Osterlings. We spoke kindly to them, and though the news of the enemy they had was far from dependable we heard them gladly. That morning it was a fine young man, lean and dark, who fell to his knees. “Sir! Sir! Can you spare a scrap of food? It’s been two days and three nights.”

Cloud crouched, and I dismounted. “Tell me something of value, and you’ll get a good meal. Are you from Celidon?”

Reluctantly he said, “This is my country. Here.”

“Then your countrymen should feed you. Can’t you work?”

He stood, abashed. “I’m a herdsman. Only—only...”

The dry brush stirred, and I knew we were watched.

“Only I never saw a animal like that, sir.”

“Nor will you ever see another.”

Wistan pointed. “How’d you get that scar?”

“A arrow. Sometimes people steal our cattle, or try.”

I said, “You yourself never cross the river into Celidon to steal cattle, I’m sure.”

“Would you kill me for it? Now?”

I shook my head.

“My children, sir, and my wife. They haven’t had a thing to eat. Not today, and not yesterday neither. If you’ll give something, sir, anything we can eat, and tell us what cattle’s yours? I’d never bother one head of yours. Never again.” He looked up at me hopefully.

“Who has your herd?”

“Them from across the mountains. I won’t never touch a animal of yours nor fight your herders. By wind and grass!”

“If I give you something now. Something to eat.”

He fell to his knees again, hands outstretched. I doubt that he had begged before; certainly he knew little about it.

I made him rise. “Tell your wife and children to come out. I won’t hurt them and I want to see them.”

She was tall and graceful, darker than he; her eyes were the sky at moonrise. Their boys were about four and five.

“I don’t have food,” I told him, “but I can see you get plenty if you’ll earn it. There’s a knight behind me. Do you know what a knight is?”

He nodded, a little hesitantly.

“A man like me, with a painted shield. His has leopards on it. Tell him you’ve talked to me, to Sir Able.”

The woman said, “Sir Able.”

“Right. Make him the promise you offered me. Tell him you’ll fight the men from over the mountains with us if he’ll feed you and your family and give you weapons.”

He grinned and rubbed his hands.

“They’re close behind us, Sir Able,” his wife said.

I promised her that she and her children would be safe with us if her husband fought for us.

We met the first at noon, a small group I thought was a patrol. Cloud charged, and I made good use of a new string while wishing I had Parka’s. They scattered, we topped a ridge and saw the advance guard of the Host of Osterland—a hundred horsemen, a horde of famished spearmen, and two elephants. Cloud impaled an elephant and tossed it, men and weapons scattering the way water scatters from a trout. The other fled, and we returned to our own advance guard and sent a man to warn Arnthor that the enemy was at hand.

There was a brisk fight that afternoon. The open, arid desert is perfect for cavalry, but the Knight of the Leopards and I had few horses, and those we had were not in the best condition. The Caan’s horsemen flanked us, charging our shield-wall and nearly breaking it, scattering when I charged from between our ranks and re-forming behind their infantry. Our bowmen made good practice, and each charge cost men and horses. When the last had been repelled, their infantry showered us with sling-stones. We advanced and were met with the kind of wild attack we had come to know so well.

The Knight of the Leopards and I fought on foot before the shieldwall, and though the questing blade Baki had found for me was not Eterne, it drank blood to its hilt, drawing me step by step in search of the life it was destined to end.

“I tried to keep pace with you,” the Knight of Leopards said afterward, “and so did the men. They could keep up with me, but not with you.”

“I was scarcely able to keep up with my own sword.”

He laughed. “But you were Able. How’s Gylf?”

“He’ll live, I’m sure, if we can keep him from fighting ‘til he’s well. Wistan’s with him, and I’ll sleep by him.”

“You thought he couldn’t be hurt.” It was said soberly, and was not a question.

“Yes,” I said. “I suppose I did.”

“Anyone can be hurt—anyone. That includes you.”

“I’ve learned I can be killed.”

To tell the truth—and I have tried throughout this whole account to tell you the truth, Ben, as I knew it at the time—I expected an attack that night. The Osterlings, I thought, would be eager to bring us to battle. In this I was misled by my ignorance of the early stages of the war and the battle on the wooded slopes of the Mountains of the Sun that came after. I had not experienced it as the Caan had.

Osterland had been beaten by Celidon (decisively, it no doubt seemed) at Five Fates, the battle that had cost him his father and brothers and made him Caan. He had regrouped, beaten Celidon at the passes, and pressed on, his army gorged on flesh and ready for battle on any terms—a battle he must have felt sure would be the last.

The result had been the Forest Fight, over which neither he nor Arnthor had exercised control. He had won in the end; but his camp had been sacked, and the war that seemed nearly over had become a long struggle. He had outflanked Arnthor and taken Kingsdoom and Thortower, had sacked them both and butchered thousands, and so regained the prestige he had lost in the Forest Fight; but Arnthor had refused battle again and again. Driven south, then west, then south again, Arnthor had yielded the Mountain of Fire, retaken it, yielded it again at my urging, retreated, and now returned renewed, proving a dangerous and persevering enemy. A night attack might have become the sort of uncontrollable clash the Forest Fight had been; and even if Osterland prevailed, a night attack would be more apt to disperse than to destroy us.

None of which I knew when I lay listening to Gylf’s labored breaths and wondering whether I had cleaned his wound well enough. Knowing that even if I had, he might die.

“Able?”

“Yes,” I told him. “I’m right here.”

“Ears up.”

“Are they coming?” I sat up. Some strident insect was singing. Much farther away, sentries bawled the numbers of their posts to prove they were awake and in position. Cloud slept; her dreams were of elephants and starry meadows.

“Ears up,” Gylf repeated.

“What is it?” I asked him; Uns stirred in his sleep.

“Master,” Gylf muttered. “He walks.”

The insect had ceased buzzing, and the sentries fallen silent. No wind disturbed the dry brush or moaned among the naked rocks; and in that charmed silence I came to understand that Gylf was right. Someone far bigger than Heimir—someone far bigger than Schildstarr—had left the seat from which his single eye beheld Skai and Mythgarthr. His ravens flew before him, and their all-seeing eyes were his. His wolves trotted at his heels, winding the blood that had not yet dyed the Greenflood. I shivered with fear, and drew my cloak about me. Gylf slept, but it was hours before I did.

I dreamed of the Caan’s sea rovers; my mind was full of them when I woke. The brave blood runs first, we say, and mean that someone who has taken a wound never fights boldly again. No doubt there is truth in it, as in many sayings; but I have never found it a good guide. The older a man is, the more cautious he is apt to be, but that is true whether he has been wounded or not; and it was slaughtering so many enemies, not wounds, that had sobered Woddet.

How did it feel to be a man as large and as strong as he, and to lie with a woman half again your size, a woman who could snap pike shafts? How did it feel, for that matter, to lie with any woman? Disiri had been human—or humanlike—for me so long ago.

Seeking any distraction, I rose and donned the old helm. Gylf was a sleeping beast far mightier than he had appeared, but wounded still; no strength was left in the jaws that had shaken men like rats.

Next day we advanced in good order, reaching the river at midmorning. The Host of Osterland was massed along the north bank. I sent a messenger to report it, and he returned (as I expected) with a summons from Arnthor.

The Royal Pavilion had been set up by the time I reached the rear; Beel and the three dukes were seated inside, with Stonebowl, Gaynor, Morcaine, and Smiler. Arnthor himself presided, wrapped in his purple cloak. I had not expected the women, although I tried not to show it when I knelt and was invited to rise and claim a chair.

Beel cleared his throat. “We’ve been conferring in your absence. His Majesty and His Highness think it best to ask your opinion before you hear ours. As we see it, there are three questions. First, should we attack at once? Second, if we do not, should we await an attack or retreat? Third, if we attack, in what order and with what plan?”

I was collecting my thoughts and did not speak.

“There are many other questions, granted. For example, should we parley? Should we go up or down the river and attempt a crossing at some other point? But His Majesty and His Highness—all of us, in fact—concur in thinking the three I have stated central. Do you agree?”

I addressed Arnthor. “I don’t, Your Majesty. Most of the day is before us. Will Your Majesty and His Highness wait for sunset? If you’ll wait, the answer to My Lord’s questions is that we should attack. But if you won’t, we should retreat.”

A long silence followed this, and a whispered conference between Stonebowl and Smiler. When it was over, Arnthor nodded to Beel, a nod that seemed to me to give permission to say whatever he thought best.

“It is only just that I make you privy to our opinions now—that is to say, to the opinions we voiced before your arrival. His Majesty reserved his. His Highness and his minister insisted on your presence. Her Majesty thought we should retreat. Her Highness urged that we wait, and—”

Morcaine interrupted. “I said stay here.” She laughed. “If they attack, let them try. I think we can beat them and I want to try sorcery, which takes time.”

“They will be trying it, too, Sister.” Arnthor gestured to Beel.

“Their Graces favored an immediate attack. So do I. It seems to us that our situation is more likely to deteriorate than improve. You disagree, and we would like to know why.”

Stonebowl said, “The Son of the Blood of the Skai Dragon is in agreement with your worthy self, Sirable. He wishes you to know that he will support your decision.”

I thanked Smiler in his own language.

Beel muttered, “I’d like to know how you learned their tongue,” and Morcaine laughed.

“I have not learned it,” I explained. “I understand it, but I’ve never learned it. It’s not a matter of study.”

Gaynor leaned forward as if to touch me. “You can never forgive me for imprisoning you. But won’t you forgive me for trying to avert a battle that may end my husband’s life?”

I said, “I bear no animus toward Your Majesty in that or any other matter.”

Arnthor spoke for himself. “Whatever the outcome of our council, I will have a word with you after it.”

I made him a seated bow. “I am yours to command.”

“Then tell me how you can promise victory.”

“In the same way Their Graces and Lord Beel fear defeat. They know the Caan will have called for more troops from the north. My Lord Beel didn’t say so, but that was surely in the minds of all those who urged that Your Majesty attack.”

I thought there might be contradiction, but none came. “Your Majesty, it would be folly to attack ‘til we know more about the state of the river. I have two brave young men, Squire Wistan and Squire Yond, investigating it now—I gave the order before I came. We must know how deep it is, and how swift the current is. If there are shallow reaches, we must find them. Waiting until twilight will give us time for it. We should also bring up our supply train and the women and wounded, and set a guard on them. Waiting for twilight will provide time for that too.”

I drew a deep breath, resolved to lie and made my lie come true. “Most signally,” I said, “I can promise you a thousand archers at twilight.”

Bahart, the youngest of the dukes, said, “Spun out of air in this wilderness? You’re a wizard indeed if you can do that, Sir Able.”

Marder murmured, “Wouldn’t it be better to let them make camp and get some sleep? We can attack tomorrow at sunrise.”

Thoas added, “If they’re archers, their bows will avail nothing after nightfall.”

I nodded. “I had thought their bows deadly by night, Your Grace. Doubtless you know more of Aelfrice than I.”

Arnthor’s eyes widened. “A thousand Aelf, Sir Able?”

“At least a thousand, Your Majesty. I hope for more.”

Beel coughed. “We had archers from Aelfrice when we defeated Schildstarr of Jotunland at the pass, Your Majesty. I believe I told you of it. Two score, possibly.”

I nodded again. “Those were Fire Aelf, Salamanders. It’s a weak clan, diminished by their slavery—”

Arnthor said, “To one who need not be named.”

“Your Majesty is wise. These will be Mossmen. Wood Aelf the ignorant name them, and the learned Skogsalfar.” I turned to the three dukes. “Theirs is the strongest clan. We may get help from the Earth Aelf as well, the Bodachan. They are not warlike, but their aid is not to be despised.”

There was a silence, broken only by the whispering of Stonebowl and Smiler. When they had finished, I spoke to them, repeating what I had told the others.

“You, Scatter of the Dragon’s Blood, are my ultimate ancestor,” Smiler said in response, “but let us have also the blessing of the Fox.”

I thanked him for the compliment and agreed.

“I will endeavor to obtain it.”

I rose too when the others rose to go, but I remained in the pavilion with Arnthor. He sent his servants away, saying they were not to return until I sent them to him.

“Your messenger said you wished to speak with us. Do you think us cowardly, Sir Able?”

I shook my head. “Never, Your Majesty.”

“Yet we are. The blind man you told us of killed our brother. Who will kill us?”

“I hope it will be Time, Your Majesty. I hope you will die, when you must die, full of years and wisdom.”

“We know better. Nor have we any wish to perish as you suggest. A thousand lovely virgins wait upon the Valfather.”

I did not speak.

“We know who and what you are. Do not feign ignorance. We do not fear death. We fear that not one of the thousand will stoop for us—that we will be driven over the Bridge called Swords.”

“If I could promise a Valkyrie, I would,” I told him. “I can’t.”

“Nor did we think it.” He studied me. Some instinct told me it might be dangerous to meet his eyes. I did not; yet they probed deep. “You did not lie with our queen.”

“Nor have I sought to, Your Majesty, knowing the effort would be fruitless.”

“Pah! You might go in to her tonight. She’d receive you with open arms. And legs. Will you?”

“No, Your Majesty. That I will not.”

He was silent again, searching me. At length he said, “It is not enough to die with courage, Sir Able. One must die honorably. Since we’re to die and know it, we have taken thought upon our honor. It is not unstained.”

“Nor mine, Your Majesty.” Although my thoughts raced, I could not imagine what he was getting at.

“We imprisoned you without cause, but we freed you and have raised you to honor. What more can we do?”

I said, “I did not ask to speak with you privately to beg a favor, Your Majesty, but to make you a gift. I feared you’d refuse it, as I still do. Thus I hoped to give it when no one else was present.”

“The gift of death?” He threw back his cloak and spread his arms. “Strike!”

“Never, Your Majesty.”

“You could not if you wished to, since we will not die by your hand. We wear no armor; you just observed it.”

I was more puzzled than ever.

“We wear a sword belt. Perhaps you observed that, too. We did not lie when we told you we had lost your sword. It was with our baggage, which was captured.”

I cannot write down all the hope I felt at that moment, or my gratitude to the Valfather, who orders such things.

“It was retaken in the Forest Fight and returned to us.” A little shakily, Arnthor stood and unbuckled his sword belt. “You say you bring a gift. We’ve none to give here. But we return what is yours and reclaim our honor.” Suddenly he smiled. “The scabbard is nicely decorated. And the hilt, though primitive, is beautiful. We could not judge the blade, because we were never able to draw it. Did you not wonder why no one described the spirits of men long dead fighting beside us?”

I could not have spoken had I wished to. He handed me Eterne; and I felt that part of me, long lost, had returned. My hands acted of themselves.

Then—oh, then! Ben, Ben, how I wish that you could hear what I heard: war cries no live man knows, and the hoofs of chargers dust a thousand years. The whole pavilion, big as it was, was thronged with fell men in armors of antique mold, knights with shining faces and eyes to make a lion cower. They knelt to Arnthor, and one said, “Do you learn in this hour, O King, why the span we cross is called the Bridge of Swords?”

“We do.” For an instant Arnthor, even Arnthor, seemed to hesitate. “You may not speak the secrets of Hel.”

They nodded.

“We ask a question, even so. We hope its answer will not be among them. Though we could not draw it, we too bore the blade. Is it possible we may join you?”

Phantom voices whispered, “It may be—it may be.”

“Sheath it,” Arnthor told me.

I did and the knights faded, their deep voices still whispering, “It may be...” when nothing else remained.

“You owe us no boon,” Arnthor told me, “and we owe you many. We ask a boon nonetheless, for that is the privilege of kings. Centuries ago, an ancestor of ours wished to honor a certain knight above all others. He had already given him nobility, broad lands, and riches—so much that he refused more. They exchanged swords, the king wearing the sword that had been that knight’s forever afterward, and that knight wearing the sword that had been his king’s. We have not given you our sword. It was your sword, the sword we took from you, the sword you won from a dragon if the tales are true. Yet it’s the one we’ve worn since the Forest Fight returned it, and you have it. Will you give the sword you wear now?”

I saw then how Parka shapes our fates, and took off my sword belt, and the sword Baki had found for me. “This is the gift I intended to give Your Majesty. I give it gladly. Wear it tonight, and I’ll be honored above all others.”

He took it from me and put it on. “May we draw it?”

“You may.”

He did, and the brand gleamed in his hand as it never had for me, filling the pavilion with gray light.

“It thirsts.” His voice had fallen to a whisper. “We have heard of such things. We never thought them true.”

“Most often they are not, Your Majesty.”

“Yet it does,” he said. (I doubt that he had heard me.) “It walks in the desert and dreams of a lake of blood.