Dominion

TWENTY-FIVE

During the long hike Margie had formed a more or less definite mental picture of the Strong Fort. In her mind she saw it as something like a miniature castle. The reality was quite different: a broad and gentle hilltop, fortified by two concentric earth-and-timber walls, each higher than a man. Lush grass covered the lower portion of the hill, and still grew in patches between the broad paths and roads and barren spots that had been worn over most of the upper portion by feet and hooves and wagon wheels. The area surrounded by the inner wall was several acres in extent and contained two deep wells, plus enough simple buildings to qualify the place as a small town.

When Artos and his party arrived, escorting Margie and the Ladies, tents were already going up between and beside the permanent buildings, to help shelter the burgeoning population. The place was badly crowded, but Margie gathered that no one expected that to last for more than a few days. A big, decisive battle was expected soon, one in which Artos would of course thrash the invaders, among them his own traitorous bastard son Medraut. There was also low-voiced gossip about Artos’ wife, whom Margie had not yet seen. Her infidelity was an open secret.

Margie had not yet finished helping the Ladies get settled in their temporary House—the usual occupants had been moved into tents for the duration—when a man came with word that Artos wanted to see her at once. She found the leader dismounted, surrounded by people wanting to make reports and/or ask favors. But his business with Margie had evidently a high priority in his own mind. As soon as he saw her he raised his voice, putting off the others, and came to take her by the arm. His first words were: “I’ve not seen him yet, have you?”

She had no doubt of who Artos meant. “No, I’ve no idea where he is.”

“I’ve managed to find out that much, at least.”

Artos led her to the main street of the miniature town, a rutted road going straight out through the main gate of the inner wall; after that they walked a quarter-circle between walls, then out through the main gate of the outer defense. Despite his relatively short legs, Artos set a pace that was hard to match. He paused twice on the way to shout orders to workmen about defenses. He and Margie dodged incoming wagons laden with what Margie supposed must be food to sustain a siege, or military supplies of some sort. When they had got outside the outer wall, the scene still bustled with activity. More tents had been put up out here, as Margie had noted on her way in; she realized now that these must be temporary storage facilities for non-essentials, and housing of a sort for various hangers-on.

On the outer rim of this suburb, a number of men were gathered around a small lean-to tent, one side of it supported by a wagon; from the sour smells wafting from the direction of the tent. Margie realized that it must be the establishment of an itinerant wineseller. When some of the men saw Artos approaching, the little crowd dispersed like morning mist.

But for once the leader showed no interest in what his troops might be doing. There was an aged and mellowed dungheap not far from the wineseller’s tent, and a crumpled figure in clothing once fine, now badly stained, was taking advantage of its softness. Artos marched straight to the figure and turned it over. To Margie the face of the old man, dozing and drooling, looked definitely familiar; though he was younger now than the last time she’d seen him, his hair and beard not so far gone in moldy whiteness, indeed still containing broad streaks of black. It was borne in on her that once even this man had been truly young; and somehow that was one of the most eerie thoughts of all.

“Wake up,” said Artos, gently cuffing the old man’s face.

Ambrosius woke up. He looked at Artos, whether with comprehension or not would have been hard to say.

Artos said: “People tell me that you have some plan of going to Londinium.”

The old man grunted. He hardly glanced at Margie. His red-rimmed eyes were still the color of storm-cleared skies, but not yet deeply hooded by age-carved lids.

Artos told him: “The roads are far from safe. And I can spare no escort for you. You understand that?”

“Understand that, of course I understand that.” Margie could recognize the voice at once. “But I do you no good by staying here. Not any more. And no one’s going to bother me on the road.”

“How do you…” Artos let it trail off. There was a little silence. Then he gripped the old man again, and raised him a little, helping him settle into a more comfortable sitting position. The old manure he sat on was as soft and dry as dust.

Artos remained squatting by the elder’s side. “Father,” he said quietly, and Margie understood that the word used did not denote true parentage. “Father, I want you to speak seriously with me for a little now. Then do whatever you must do.”

Ambrosius either didn’t understand, or didn’t want to understand. “Go ‘way. I gotta get some rest, then it’ll be time for me to leave.”

“No, hear me first. I won’t try any more to keep you confined. I won’t try to take away your drink. I see now that those efforts did no good.”

“Speakin’ of drink…”

“First, tell me something about this young woman you see before you.”

Those remarkable eyes turned to regard Margie. She felt a nervous shudder, that ceased as abruptly as it had come. It was followed by the strangest sensation, as if some gentle bird the size of a small aircraft, as silent as it was invisible, had just flown over her head, almost brushing her hair with its unseen wingtips.

“Pretty thing,” said Ambrosius, regarding Margie tenderly. He spoke now in some tongue far older than the one in common use here, but she still understood him perfectly.

“What’s that?” said Artos, who hadn’t understood. “I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

The elder ignored him for the moment. “Little one, do I know you? Lately I’ve been forgetting things.”

Margie would have bristled at being called “little one” by any man of her own world that she had ever met. But when the appellation came from Ambrosius, and in the particular ancient tongue that he had chosen—well, she would have felt guilty of bad manners, if not worse, if she’d objected. She replied only with a gesture, one she knew would signify agreement to any speaker of that ancient tongue.

Ambrosius was momentarily intrigued. “How is it you can understand me, one or your tender years? No, forget I asked that. It’s often wiser not to know… tell me one thing only, are you from Nimue?”

Artos sighed; probably he had caught the name at the end. Margie said: “No, grandfather.” The honorific title came quite naturally.

Grandfather belched, a brutal sound. Gross manners—but no, here a belch probably had nothing to do with manners at all. On the tip of her tongue Margie had marveling questions for the old man, interrogations about how he’d managed to make it through the centuries to where she’d met him first. If he could do it maybe she could make it back as well. But maybe she shouldn’t mention their other meeting. Often wiser not to know: he might have said that as a warning to her.

Artos stood up, with another sigh. The old man’s attention, Margie saw, had abruptly gone away from both of them, was somehow turned inward. But she and Artos both had things to settle with the old man, and time was a pressure on them if not on him. She knelt down, put out a hand, and gently touched Ambrosius on the arm. Shifting back to the tongue that Artos could understand, she said to Ambrosius: “On the march here, people were saying that you were dead.”

That got his attention back, if only briefly. “Ah, little one. Now you’ve seen what I am, do you think I’m still alive?”

No words spoken in bright daylight, thought Margie, ought to chill the way those did. She could find no answer. Meanwhile the old man’s gaze had once more shifted inward, to the contemplation of some private grief or problem.

Turning to Artos, Margie said: “He obviously hasn’t been like this all his life. I mean, he can’t have been this way for very long. What happened to him?”

Artos frowned at her for a moment. “I’ll allow the possibility that you truly do not know,” he said at last. “All right. What happened to him was that he was enchanted by a young woman, a sorceress of surpassing skill. Besotted, by one he doted on—he could never say no about anything to a pretty young girl. That was his weakness, and they found it out. He taught Nimue the secrets of his craft, and he taught too well, by far. She was for a time one of the sacred Ladies, you know—the very one whose place you may be allowed to fill.”

“I’ve heard her name spoken since I’ve been here in your land. That she is one of your enemies. Beyond that I knew nothing of her until now.”

The military leader was growing angry. “For the last few months, Ambrosius, when he is not too drunk to do anything at all, does nothing but sit and mope after her, yearning to see her, wondering why she left him for Falerin, begging all the gods to let him hold her once more in his arms.” Artos’s wrathful gaze shifted back to the old man. “There’s nothing strange about the fact that people call him dead. Nimue’s spells have forced him to destroy himself.”

“Can’t anything be done?”

“I’ve tried about everything that I can think of. And I have more other work to do than ten men could accomplish.”

As if his curtain of withdrawal had somehow been penetrated by the viciousness of Artos’ quiet anger, Ambrosius stirred himself, came back to them. Now he too appeared silently angry, at Artos for disturbing his morbid contemplation. But the old man’s feeble rage was hollow and could not last long; presently it was gone. Now he looked once more at Margie, but as if he had already forgotten who she was.

Artos looked at her too, and when he spoke it was still to her—or to himself. “And yet,” the leader mused, “he has somehow managed to touch you. He brought you here, for some purpose, from—wherever are you really from?”

“From a far land, lord. I don’t know if I can explain.”

“His magical games. I’ve always taken them on trust. Try explaining to me later. But the fact that he brought you here raises hope in me that all’s not lost. Even though I don’t know why he did it.”

Artos was interrupted by a burst of oaths from the old man, who was getting unsteadily to his feet. “Where’s Nimue?” Ambrosius demanded of them both. “What’ve you done with her?” He glared at Artos. “Tell me, or I blast you inside out!”

Artos spoke gently and sadly. “Do you think I fear you, father?”

“Where is she?” But even as Ambrosius spoke, his rage was faltering back into fear.

“She’s with Falerin, as you know.” That much was said brutally. Then Artos seemed unable to keep his voice from softening. “Do you think I’m going to tell you how to reach her?”

“I cannot even use my powers to look for her. She has forbidden me that.” Ambrosius groped around him in the air with trembling hands, as if trying to seize something that could not be seen. His fingers, large, muscular, and powerless, bore great jeweled and useless rings. Never before had Margie seen an alcoholic derelict who still wore expensive-looking jewelry; but she could understand why no one had yet stolen these.

Ambrosius rambled on: “Where’s that wineskin? I had it right here…” Then he stopped, staring hopelessly at the young man. “I tell you, Artos, a great stone crushes me. I do nothing but think of her.”

“And drink.” Artos’ voice almost broke, then with a leader’s power regained steadiness. “You damned old fool. But I cannot spend my whole life trying to save yours. Not when kings depend on me to lead their armies, not when… you see, there’s a way the common folk have, of looking at me when I ride by. I can’t just leave them all to be part of Falerin’s dominion. You know what kind of a fate that would be.”

There was a wagon coming out of the fort’s main gate toward them now, noisily empty as it jounced over ruts. It was drawn slowly by some kind of sturdy-looking cattle that Margie could not have named. Ambrosius watched it approaching for a moment, then turned back to Artos. “I’ve arranged for a ride. I’m going to Londinium. No, it’s all settled. If I’m not here you won’t be worried about me, wasting your time trying to do something for me. I’ll be no worse off in Londinium than anywhere else.” It was as if Ambrosius, by some trick, or great effort of the will, was managing to hold himself momentarily sober.

Artos could find nothing to say.

The wagon pulled up at the roadside nearby, stopping with a final jolt into an old rut. The lone driver, in poor garments, looked very tired, Margie thought, and worried as well. Probably about having to drive all the way to Londinium, wherever that was, without an escort.

But the old man was not quite ready. He put out a tentative, unexpected hand and took his leader by the arm. “Before I go, will you show me the Sword?”

“Sword?” It took Artos a moment to understand. Then slowly he pulled the weapon from the sheath at his side and held it up, hilt down, point to the morning sky. It was a little fancier then the other handmade weapons Margie had seen during the last few days. Otherwise she could see nothing remarkable about it.

Ambrosius raised a gnarled finger, touching the half-polished steel. “Do you remember how it must be hidden? When the time comes?”

This time Artos paused a little longer. Then in a hardened voice he answered: “I remember.”

“Good; she doesn’t know about the Sword—not yet. If I were to see her again—she might find out. But I’m not going to see her again. She probably wouldn’t let me if I tried, and—”

The old man’s voice collapsed, and with it his sobriety. He clung to the young man for support, and Margie could see the tears squeeze from his eyes. He repeated: “A great s-stone, Artos… she’s put me under it for good. There’s no way out. No way.”

Artos abruptly turned fierce. “Don’t say that! In time, with all your powers, there surely must be something… tell me, what will it take? What materials will the counterspells require? I’ll get them. I’ll find other wizards who can help. It’s madness for us to give up like this. I’ll mortgage this land if need be, I’ll strip the kings who pay me of their wealth. I’ll tell them I cannot win without your help.”

Ambrosius groaned. In a voice of solemn doom, fallen almost to inaudibility, he said: “It may not be.”

“I’ll bring the new priests, with their nailed-up god, to pray for you.”

“No… it may not be.” Ambrosius paused, as if trying to recover himself again. He held one forefinger upraised, as if what he was about to say next would be of great importance. But then he said only: “There’s a street I know of in Londinium… it reaches all the way around the world. I think this is one alley to it, here.”

He lurched away from Artos to the side of the waiting wagon, then abruptly altered his course and made it, in a few staggering steps, to the wineseller’s counter. Margie saw a bright coin appear between gnarled fingers, in a hand she knew, with professional certainty, had been empty a moment earlier. The villainous-looking proprietor glanced nervously at Artos; the commander’s sword was sheathed again, and what the wineseller saw must have reassured him, for he took the coin and handed over a full wineskin. Ambrosius reeled under its modest wobbling weight back to the wagon. He hung on the side of the vehicle, staring into its flat bed, which was empty but for a few inconsequential bundles that doubtless held only the driver’s personal effects.

Then Ambrosius began to sing, loudly and drunkenly in a cracked voice: “Lon-din-i-um, Lon-din-i-um, I’m going to Lon-din-i-ummm.” Suddenly his countenance collapsed into a mask of grief. One word croaked from his lips.

The face of Artos had hardened into a mask of duty. He grabbed the old man around the waist, and, as if he were a bundle of freight, hoisted him with easy strength up over the wagon’s side and in. Then with a wave, as if throwing something from him that he did not want, he sent the wagon rumbling on its way.