The Lion of Farside

" ^ "

Cyncaidh rode erect but relaxed at the head of his staff, on a smooth-gaited stallion that would not have tolerated an ordinary rider. In front of him, the Emperor's elite 1st Cavalry Cohort filled the road almost to the top of the next rise. Two complete legions followed, twenty cohorts of cavalry and mounted infantry with their supply trains, a great cumbersome dragon extending for miles, its serpentine body integrated by well-drilled protocol and couriers on horseback.

He sniffed, and smiled ruefully. A morning like this should smell of wildflowers and meadow grass, but already the odors of horse urine and trampled manure dominated. At the rear of the column, the road would be nearly mired with it. If the breeze would just swing round to the east or west, instead of holding from the south… From the south. He wondered how yesterday's battlefield smelled, after a day of sunshine, warmth, and flies. Mearigher's casualty report, delivered by courier the day before had been bad enough, but to actually see the remnant of Mearigher's army with its hospital train this morning had been powerfully sobering.

It truly was astonishing that an effective southern army had been assembled from so many different nations. And by a farmer from Farside, with no previous experience of war or leadership in this lifetime.

A marsh hawk caught Cyncaidh's eye, soaring low over the meadow beside the road, single-minded, oblivious to the army. It slowed, and with blurred wingstrokes hovered a moment, then dropped into the tangle of grass and forbs, to fly up with a rodent in its claws. Nature too had its violence, he reminded himself, but seemingly little more than needed to eat and raise young. Only men and ylver fertilized their fields with blood from time to time. Their great challenge, laid on them by God, was to change, he had no doubt. Change, and lose their bloodiness; change by dint of growing wisdom. Meanwhile one did the best one could, dealing with the world as it was.

Ahead, a courier rode toward him against the direction of march, cantering his horse briskly along the road's edge. The rider, a sublieutenant, kept his pace almost until he'd reached Cyncaidh, then stopped, saluted, and turned his horse to ride alongside the general. "Sir!" he said. "The point's met a small force of southerners ahead, under a flag of truce. With a man who says he's Marshal Makurdi."

"Aha!" The voice was Quaie's, calling from behind him. "You'll have him in your hands, Cyncaidh! Don't waste the opportunity!"

The admonition irritated the commander, and half turning in the saddle, he glanced back. Disregarding his aura, the seventy-year-old Rapist of Ferny Cove looked like a handsome youth: tall, slender, impeccably tailored, and utterly hairless, with refined features. But his eyes invariably showed contempt, while the mouth was inclined to mock or smirk. Quaie had been against Paedhrig's orders to negotiate if possible, and had been taking it out on his chief counselor. May you be reborn as a maggot in your own carcass! Cyncaidh thought.

As commander, Cyncaidh could always stomp on him, but politically it would be unwise. Better to let the war erode his influence, already shrunken by Ferny Cove.

He glanced at Varia on his right. Her aura had receded and paled at the report, but only a little. "What's the ground like ahead?" he asked the sublieutenant.

"Much the same as here, General."

He sent the man cantering back up to the route leader with orders to stop for an indefinite break, then sent similar orders to the other cohorts. And thought his apologies to the farmers whose crops would be trampled by his camping army. "I'll have the headquarters tent set up," he told his staff. "We'll see what this Macurdy has to say. If he's come to negotiate, we may spend a day or two here."

He ignored Quaie's remark: "Why set up the tent? A sharpened stake in the hot sun would be more appropriate."

The tent was up before the southern commander arrived. If necessary he'd have had Macurdy delayed to get it done. It would seriously jeopardize negotiations if the man saw Varia. As it was, she could listen from behind the linen wall while watching through the spy hole, and he'd consult with her during breaks.

The large staff room had panels rolled up on two sides for ventilation, and Cyncaidh and his general staff lounged around a trestle table with a top of intricate parquetry. He wondered what Curtis Macurdy would think of it, or if he'd notice. Outside, a horse cantered up and stopped; a moment later the sublieutenant stepped inside and saluted.

"He's almost here, General."

Cyncaidh got to his feet, his staff following suit, Quaie sneering something about the disgrace of fawning on a criminal like that. You're our expert on disgrace, Cyncaidh thought, and led them outside. From there he could see the southern commander, a big man with big shoulders, on a big horse. With no spear maiden by him, nor any aide at all. His platoon was being guided to the pastured grove set aside to shelter them from the sun, leaving him alone with his ylvin escort. No doubt his men were less than happy with that, Cyncaidh told himself.

Macurdy dismounted, his movements easy, casually athletic. He wore neither byrnie nor helmet. His hair was short-bobbed, the color of wet sand, and as he neared, his eyes showed hazel. His hands, Cyncaidh thought, might be the largest he'd seen. His aura showed more than power and honesty; there was also what Cyncaidh read as purpose and logic, care and concern.

And inborn dominance. The ylver didn't have a specific classification of personality types, as expressed in auras, but he recognized the aura of a man born to command, and the strong aural fullness of one who did. He stopped in front of Cyncaidh. "My name is Macurdy," he said. "I'm the commander of the southern alliance."

Cyncaidh nodded gravely. "I am General Cyncaidh." He gestured at the tent. "Step inside and we'll talk."

They went in together, Cyncaidh's staff following. An orderly held a chair for Macurdy, as instructed. It would give Varia a view of him in profile, while avoiding any chance that he'd see an eye behind the spy hole. When everyone was seated, Cyncaidh asked, "Why have you come to us, Commander?"

"There were two things," Macurdy said, "that I was supposed to do on this campaign. One was to punish the empire for laying waste to Kormehr, and for the Rape at Ferny Cove. The other was to get a treaty of peace to last forever, with a pledge of trade without tariffs, and an exchange of ambassadors. I've been told you're the emperor's chief counselor; I came to talk terms."

Quaie snorted derisively, drawing annoyed glances from the rest of the staff and a sharp look from Cyncaidh.

"You understand," Cyncaidh said, "that my authority is limited. Any terms we might work out will be tentative, pending the emperor's signature. Who on your side needs to sign?"

"Just me. My authority's good."

In the name of all those kings and chiefs?! Even with the Dynast behind the man, Cyncaidh was surprised. And momentarily uncomfortable with it. It greatly expedited matters, but it felt-almost indecent for things to be so simple. "Are you hungry, Commander?" he asked. "Perhaps you'd like lunch first."

"I ate in the saddle."

"Then I suggest we begin an exploratory discussion now."

"Good. I'm ready."

One might almost be hopeful, Cyncaidh told himself. No arrogance, no posturing, no petty jockeying. He gestured at the men around the table. "While the authority here is mine, Commander, these lords may have questions or suggestions, or information to contribute, and they will witness any tentative agreement we may come to. On my left are Lord General A'raiel, Lord General Quaie…"

At Quaie's name, Macurdy got so abruptly to his feet, he knocked over his folding chair, freezing the others where they sat. "You expect me to sit down with the Butcher of Kormehr? The Rapist of Ferny Cove?" He hawked, and spat on the floor. Quaie sent his own chair toppling backward then, hand on his saber hilt. Macurdy, in response, reached for his.

For just an instant Cyncaidh was dismayed, then realized that neither man's aura showed rage. Macurdy's showed what might be satisfaction, Quaie's restrained glee. Cyncaidh understood Quaie's motivation: the man was famous as a fencer, a master of the saber.

"My lords!" he said sharply, "control yourselves!"

Each man stopped short of drawing his weapon.

"This peasant has insulted me in words and act," Quaie answered coldly, then turned his glare to Macurdy. "I challenge you to duel."

Cyncaidh was prepared to veto this; he had the authority, and the political repercussions of frustrating Quaie's bloody intention were far more acceptable than those of Macurdy's death. And surely Quaie would win. "My lords-" he began firmly, but Macurdy overrode the words.

"Among civilized people," Macurdy said, "if one challenges, the other chooses the weapon. Are you civilized, Quaie?"

Cyncaidh held back then. Macurdy had something in mind. Best to wait, see what this meant, and step in later if need be.

Quaie was taken aback for only a moment, for he was an expert at spear fencing too, and no other alternative occurred to him. He smiled mockingly. "By all means, human. I've been training and dueling for more years than you've lived. Choose as you wish."

Macurdy held up his large hands, thick palmed, the fingers hooked. "Hands," he said calmly. "We'll fight with bare hands."

Cyncaidh expected Quaie to refuse. Wrestling was popular among ylver in pre-adolescence, but not later, while fist fighting was considered uncouth, suited only to slaves. And Macurdy was clearly far stronger than Quaie. So the ylf lord's answer bewildered Cyncaidh. "Perfect! Perfect!" Qauie said. "Hands it will be!"

"My lords," Cyncaidh said firmly, "I cannot allow this."

It was Macurdy, not Quaie, who foiled him. "Chief Counselor," he said, "if you disallow this, I'll ride back to my army today."

Quaie smirked. "Indeed, Lord General, let the boy take his punishment. He will learn from it." Then he turned and walked out the door, Macurdy close behind. And for almost the first time since adolescence, Cyncaidh had no notion of what to do in a situation. He simply followed them into the sunshine, his staff dumbfounded at his heels.

"And how," said Quaie, "do we decide the victor? Shall we fight till one of us cannot continue? Or surrenders? I do owe you the option of quitting, I suppose."

"We fight till one is dead," Macurdy answered.

"Ah. To the death then." Quaie removed his tunic and undershirt, Macurdy following suit. Then they faced off, Quaie tall, slender and sinewy, Macurdy nearly as tall and strongly muscled. Cyncaidh had no idea what Quaie had in mind. His fists weren't even clenched; his hands were poised half open.

"Tell me when you're ready," Quaie said.

"I'm ready."

Quaie stepped forward, at the same time ducking, and his left hand darted toward Macurdy. Macurdy's right fist drove in a compact, hooking arc, striking Quaie hard on the side of the face, smashing him backward. For a long moment the ylf sat stunned and blinking on the ground, blood trickling from a gash on one cheekbone. Even before he got to his feet, the cheek had begun to darken and swell, as if the bone was broken. And the smirk was gone; Cyncaidh saw fear and rage in Quaie's aura now.

"Always look up, Quaie," Macurdy said mildly.

When Quaie got up, Macurdy moved in again. A hammer fist shot out, striking Quaie on the nose, and once more the ylf went down hard, blood flowing freely.

"That's called a left jab. The one before was a right hook."

Quaie stayed down seconds longer this time, gathering his wits and resolution, then rolled to hands and knees as if to get up. But instead, as he began to rise, he lunged at Macurdy's legs. Macurdy started to step backward, but Quaie grabbed his left knee with both hands-and Macurdy roared with pain, flinging backward and landing on his buttocks.

Now it was Quaie who stood. Shock fingers! Clearly his talent went well beyond the ylvin norm, regardless of his public attitude. And to interfere now, after the humiliation and injuries he'd suffered, would bring severe censure, Cyncaidh realized, even from the many who disliked Quaie. The Emperor would have no choice but to dismiss him, not only as chief counselor, but from the Council and military command.

Blood flowing from his nose, Quaie began to circle Macurdy. "You see," he said, "the hands are good for more than striking blows." Macurdy swiveled on his tailbone as if to kick out in defense. Quaie feinted a grab, drew a kick by Macurdy's right foot, and snatched it. Again Macurdy roared with pain, rocking backward.

Quaie let him go and began circling again. Macurdy, pale and twitching, had trouble pivoting now. Quaie could easily have gone for his temples, where the shock would have killed, but he preferred to gloat first. "I've heard that shock fingers applied to the genitals shrivel them forever. When I've paralyzed you, Commander, I'll try it."

Cyncaidh took a single step toward Quaie; shock fingers couldn't harm him, prepared as he was, and he couldn't let this continue, regardless of the consequences to himself. But he moved too late. Macurdy, still dazed, had raised a hand toward Quaie-and from it a fist-sized ball of glowing plasma appeared! For just an instant it floated there, then shot out to strike the ylf in the midriff. Quaie shrieked and flung backward, his abdomen a gaping, steaming, messy hole, to lie bulge-eyed, conspicuously, bonelessly dead. The onlookers stood stunned, slack-jawed.

More than Cyncaidh and his staff had witnessed the fight and its uncanny finish. Various soldiers, though keeping their distance, had paused in their activities to watch and listen more or less covertly. Now they stood frozen, mouths open. Cyncaidh, suddenly aware of them, shouted, "Soldiers! If you have things to do, get about them! If you don't, I'll see you're given some!"

They scurried like rabbits.

"Sergeant Glinnoch! Get a litter! Have General Quaie taken to the surgeon!" Who can declare him officially dead. "Captain Flion! Pass the order that we'll camp here tonight!"

Then he himself stepped to Macurdy, who sat staring at the ruined corpse. "Are you able to stand, Commander?"

Macurdy pulled his attention from what had been Quaie. "Not without help," he husked. "My legs are weak as noodles."

Cyncaidh had a second litter brought, and Macurdy, quaking now with aftershock, was lain on a pallet beneath a shady tree, and an ylvin healer sent for. Then Cyncaidh seated his staff as a committee of evidence, to draft a statement they all agreed on, describing Quaie's death and how it happened. They'd all witnessed it, and there were no disagreements on what had been said or done. They also agreed on the legality of the duel, that it was Quaie who'd issued the challenge and been first to use magic, and that when Macurdy had seemed helpless, Quaie had said he was going to mutilate him.

On the other hand, Quaie had issued his challenge only after Macurdy had called him the Rapist of Ferny Cove, and had emphasized his scorn by spitting on the ground.

Given the unanimity of the general staff, Quaie's aide, who'd also been sworn in as part of the committee, could hardly avoid signing a statement of witnessed evidence. But he added a complaint that Macurdy's tone, in speaking to Quaie, had been insulting in the extreme. Cyncaidh then added a rejoinder, pointing out that considering the extremity of Quaie's actions in Kormehr, and the intensity of southern feelings, Macurdy's having spat only on the ground could be regarded as an exercise in restraint.

Actually, Quaie had been called the Rapist of Ferny Cove by more than a few of his peers, some of them publicly. There'd be a fuss, and some long-lasting bitterness, but by persons who already hated both himself and the Emperor. Certainly the situation would be far less serious than he'd anticipated during the fight.

When the committee of evidence had completed and signed their statement, the scribe took it to another room to write copies, before the original was sent off to Duinarog. Then Macurdy was brought in, on his feet now, supported by two ylvin soldiers. After a lunch eaten at the conference table, they began discussing the basic features of a peace agreement. Cyncaidh had felt optimistic, but hadn't expected it to go as smoothly as it did. He and Macurdy had similar ideas of what was desirable and just.

They didn't break for supper, but ate again at the conference table, still discussing. Finally Cyncaidh suggested they stop for the evening. His scribe could organize their discussion as a draft agreement for review in the morning. It seemed to him probable that never in the history of the empire had a major agreement, nor many minor agreements, been worked out to mutual satisfaction so quickly.

"Fine," Macurdy said. "But before we sleep, there's something you and I need to talk about, unrelated to the treaty. A personal ambition I have."

Cyncaidh frowned. "Very well, Commander. I'll have our horses saddled and we can take a ride." He turned to his general staff. "Gentlemen, you are dismissed. We'll meet again after breakfast."

The two commanders watched the others file out. Then Cyncaidh turned to the couriers and door guards. "You too," he said. "All but you, Alhnar. I want you to have our horses saddled and brought to us." When they were gone, he spoke to Macurdy in an undertone little louder than a whisper. "We have a few minutes to wait. What is this all about, Commander? Not the details, but the major matter."

Macurdy too spoke in a murmur. "I'm a married man, general. My wife, who was a Sister, was stolen from me, and after a time passed into ylvin hands. Your hands personally: I'm told she's your slave now, or has been, and I want her back. But if your staff knew, someone might say you'd given in on points of the agreement because of it. And I don't want anything to threaten that. Too many have died for it."

Cyncaidh stared for a long moment while Macurdy waited. Finally, in a normal voice, he said, "Excuse me, Commander. Let me call my wife; she may be able to advise us. Varia, would you come out please? We'd like you to take a ride with us."

Varia! It was Macurdy's turn to stare, open-mouthed. The curtain moved at the rear of the room, and Varia stepped out. He felt as if his windpipe had locked; his throat hurt from the constriction. She was more beautiful than he'd recalled. "I'll need to change into riding clothes first," she said, not meeting Macurdy's eyes. Then she disappeared again.

She didn't reappear till Cyncaidh called that her horse was there. Then the three of them left the tent, mounted, and rode to the road, all without speaking. A slender moon hung low in the west, while in the east, the first stars climbed the darkening sky. It was Macurdy who spoke first, in American, his voice thick. "Are you really married to him?"

She answered in Yuultal. "Yes. In this world."

A confusion of thoughts flooded his mind, but no words came to him. It was Cyncaidh who spoke. "Let me tell you what might be difficult for her to say." As they rode, Cyncaidh resumed briefly how he'd found her. Of her assault on him when he refused to take her to Ferny Cove, or let her go alone. Chuckling as he finished. "If ylver scarred as men do, I'd still bear the marks on my face."

He went on from there: how she'd learned of his love, and nearly drowned trying to escape. And how he and Mariil had teamed up to overcome her resistance. "You might well hold a deep grudge against me, Curtis Macurdy. For if I'd determined to, it's quite possible I could have gotten her safely to the Oz Gate. But if she'd gotten back to Farside, she wouldn't have found you, because you were here. It's only because we did what we did that you've met again."

Macurdy didn't answer, simply turned his gaze to her and found her watching him. "I can get our children back for us," he said. "It's part of my agreement with Sarkia."

By moonlight, her eyes gleamed with tears. "Oh Curtis, so much has happened. So much has changed! I've changed, a lot, and you even more. And Raien and I have a baby, a beautiful child. And what he told you isn't all there is to tell. I knew early on that I loved him, and couldn't face it. Couldn't face what it meant."

"Do you want to be with him then, instead of me?"

She turned her eyes ahead, not answering for a bit, and when she spoke, she still didn't answer. Instead she told in a low monotone of her trip to the gate and the Cloister, not omitting Xader's harassments and death. Of her year there, the Tiger barracks, the rapes, her escape and recapture.

"I know some of it, a little," Macurdy said. And told her what he'd learned from Jeremid about Xader's death. Told her briefly of Liiset's lies, and the tomttu's. And what the skull had shown him, the skull that had to be Tomm's.

She was staring at him now. "I could see you had talent," she said, "but even after I'd explored it, I didn't imagine how strong it was. What you did to Quaie today-I've never heard of anything like that.

"We were innocents when we married. Our dream of farming in Illinois couldn't work now, Curtis.

"And Raien has a dream too, one I've come to share. The same dream you worked on today at the conference table: of a peace held in place by treaty and trade and embassies. But the agreement's only a first step; none of us will see the dream complete in this lifetime. Imperial government needs to become more rational, its politics more ethical, our people wiser. That's another part of our dream, Raien's and mine."

Again they rode a bit without speaking, and again it was Macurdy who broke the silence, still in a monotone. "Do you love me, Varia?"

"I'll always love you, Curtis. You were my first love, and it changed me more than you can imagine. It showed me what love is, and that I could love. And later it made me strong."

Her cat eyes searched him in the night, so much less dark to her than to him. "I'll always love you, but-I've changed. My dream has changed."

It was Cyncaidh who broke the next silence. "We've heard tales of the amazing General Macurdy. That you ride a wild boar; that you have two rows of teeth-that an Ozian spear maiden loves you, and you've refused her."

Macurdy laughed, a laugh amused but without joy. "I got my front teeth all broken or knocked out back in Oz, and new ones grew in. A whole new set, all nice and straight. They even pushed out the good ones I already had. I never had sprouted wisdom teeth before; I guess that tells you something." He turned to Varia. "I guess it took, when you spelled me to not get old. I guess that's how I grew them. And there is a spear maiden; you're not the only one who knows about loving two at a time." He paused. "You don't suppose you could do for her what you did for me, do you? Give her long youth?"

Varia's teeth gnawed her lower lip thoughtfully. "If she has the necessary ylvin genes. The blood. But that's very unlikely, for someone from Oz. Where is she now?"

"In camp, in the hospital. Someone put a big dent in her helmet, in the battle. She'll be all right though."

"If you can bring her here to me-"

While the two of them discussed the possibilities, Cyncaidh rode quietly, thinking. The commander of the southern army still showed a little of the farmboy Varia had told him about. Had described to him at length, till she'd become comfortable with her memories. He'd come to feel he knew Curtis Macurdy.

Actually he hadn't, and neither had Varia. Or no, that wasn't right: she'd known him as he had been. Then, held to the fire, instead of flaring and dying, or softening, or going brittle, he'd tempered, strengthened, grown into something uncanny, a man who still hadn't learned how powerful he was.

Varia's voice drew him from his reverie. "Raien," she said, "I want to go back with Curtis tomorrow to visit his spear maiden, with a guard platoon to bring me home. I'll only be gone a day."

For just a moment Cyncaidh felt misgiving, but it faded. He-he and A'duaill and Mariil-had come to know her as deeply as you could know anyone, and there was no dishonesty in her. She would come back. And if somehow she changed her mind, what right would he have to complain?

She'd come back though. As she sat in the saddle looking at him, her love assured him of it.

They started back to camp, and Cyncaidh's thoughts reached ahead to Duinarog. Paedhrig would sign, beyond a doubt, and the agreement with the Rude Lands would be law. Then they'd have to weather the resulting storm. The Expansion Party would be enraged at the agreement, but with Quaie dead there'd be a period, no doubt all too brief, of confusion, probably indecision, and perhaps even conflict within its ranks. Then someone would establish leadership and attempt to drum up public outrage at a treaty without vengeance, made when the smoke of funeral pyres had hardly dissipated.

They'd deal with it, though, he and Paedrigh. If it got bad enough, he'd resign as chief counselor, claiming family reasons, and Paedhrig could appoint Gavriel, a smoother politician. It might be just as well. It might be time for a healer in the Chief Counselor's office. Then, after a time, Paedhrig might appoint him Minister of Southern Affairs.

He smiled to himself. He could stand being dismissed. He'd take Varia back to Aaerodh Manor, and they'd spend a year exploring. Do the coast and islands in his sloop, the rivers by canoe and the forests on skis.

That night Macurdy lay awake thinking. Last night he'd told Melody he'd marry her, and had wondered how he could have said it. Now he'd learned that Varia was married to someone else. Yesterday it had seemed he'd been a fool to imagine this invasion producing anything but disaster and death, and tonight he had an agreement, or seemed to.

It wasn't, he thought, as if things had been preordained. More like, if he just kept doing what seemed right, more good than bad would come of it.

And what about all the dead. What of them?

What indeed? Everyone died sooner or later. Even Sarkia would. And people here believed that after a period in something like purgatory, reviewing what they'd done in life and suffering for their misdeeds, they'd be reborn, until finally they were fit for heaven. It sounded more just than what he'd learned in the Oak Creek Presbyterian Church, though Reverend Fleming wouldn't much approve of it.

He went to sleep on that.

PART 6: Melody 39: Korens Manor