Kedrigern in Wanderland (3 page)

“Just being frank, my dear. I can’t see why you’d want to encumber yourself with a foolish thing like a wand. What do you need a wand for? You have wings.”

The room was silent for a brief space, and then Princess turned to Kedrigern, and with a charming smile, said, “If I didn’t know better, Keddie, I’d say you were jealous.”

“Jealous? Me? Of what?” he replied, astonishment and injury mingled in his expression.

“Of my wings.”

“Jealousy is the farthest thing from my mind. What do I want with wings?”

“They help you to fly,” she explained.

“If I wish to fly, my dear, I’m perfectly capable of turning myself into a bird. I don’t need wings. I’d look like a complete fool with a little pair of gauzy wings.”

The smile vanished from Princess’s face and her voice took on a distinct edge. “Oh, I see. I look like a fool.”

“I didn’t say you
do,
I said I
would.
Actually, the wings become you. You look like one of the larger fairies.”

Her voice was glacial as she said, “Oh, thank you. I don’t just look like a fool, I look like
afat
fool. Thank you very much indeed.”

“No, no, no, my dear! I said nothing of fat. You’re not the least bit fat. You have a perfect figure. You’re as slender as a
. . .
as a
. .

“A wand?” she suggested.

“A willow. Slender as a willow,” he said, his voice rising. “I was referring to the fact that while the shape and texture of your wings resemble those of the fairies, you are human-sized. Most fairies are not
. . .
unless they’re attending a christening or a wedding, or are up to something nasty. In short, my dear, you are a beautiful woman with a splendid figure, but you are not smaller than an agatestone on the forefinger of an alderman, nor could you ride in a chariot made of an empty hazelnut, wielding a whip of cricket’s bone. You are not wee, nor are you tiny: 
you could not dance a jig on the nail of my little finger, nor could you take shelter from the rain under a mushroom.”

“Well, no,” said Princess grudgingly. “But what has all that to do with my wanting a wand?”

After a moment’s thought, Kedrigern said, “If you carry a wand, you’ll look like someone impersonating a fairy godmother. Is that what you want?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m only trying to find out what you really want for our anniversary.”

“All I wanted was a wand, and I’m obviously not going to get it from you, so let’s just drop the whole thing.”

“Don’t be angry, my dear.”

“I’m not the least bit angry,” said Princess in a cool, controlled voice. “I think we’ve said all these is to say on the subject. Let’s discuss it no further, shall we?”

Kedrigern remained silent, pondering the matter. After a time, Princess said softly, as if thinking aloud, “I suppose I
would
look like someone trying to impersonate a fairy godmother. That wouldn’t do at all.” Again there was silence, and then she observed, “It really would be a nuisance. More trouble than it’s worth, a wand is. I’m better off sticking to my spells and not encumbering myself.”

Kedrigern’s voice, when he spoke, was thoughtful. “They’re very difficult to come by, wands are,” he said.

“Oh, I’m sure they are. Practically impossible, I should think. No end of bother. And for what?” said Princess, with a little laugh of dismissal.

“There never were that many around in a proper size for you,” Kedrigern went on. “I might be able to get one from the fairies, if I catch them in a generous mood on Midsummer’s Night, but it would be about the size of a whisker. Not much good to you, I’m afraid.”

“None at all. I don’t know what I could have been thinking of. What would I do with a wand that I can’t do by learning my spells?”

“Actually, a wand can be helpful in transformations and transmutations. Especially if you’re close enough to touch the object of the spell.”

“Really? Oh, but surely
. . .
no, it would be too much

trouble. You can’t spare the time. I know how busy you are.”

A long silence followed. The room was dark now, as the fire had sunk and no candles were yet lit. Out of the darkness came Kedrigern’s voice. “Mind you, they’re not impossible to find. Difficult, but not impossible.”

“Keddie, you don’t mean
. . .
”

“My dear, if your heart is set on a magic wand, you shall have one. I can’t promise to have it by our anniversary— it may take time.”

“Of course. I understand.”

“I’ll have to do some hard bargaining. People who are fortunate enough to possess a magic wand don’t just hand it over to anyone who asks for it, you know.”

“Oh, I’m sure they don’t.”

“And I’ll have to
. . .“
In the dark room, the noise of his swallowing was clearly audible, as was the faint gasp of pain as between clenched teeth he uttered the hated word
“. . .
travel.”

Kedrigern felt about travel as a cloistered monk feels about debauchery: he knew that people indulged in it, and that they even professed to enjoy it, but in his heart of hearts he simply could not believe that this was so. Travel, to him, meant the expenditure of large sums of money and the loss of irrecoverable time merely to remove oneself from a comfortable home and go to a place one really did not care to be—and then to be faced with a return as bad as the journey out. Travel meant discomfort, inconvenience, squalor, hardship, and danger, not to mention extortion, indigestion, and disappointment. One departed with forebodings and returned with shattered illusions, itching from head to foot, smelling like a kennel, aching in every joint and with a stomach in open revolt. Travel was paying to suffer. Seasoned travelers who boasted of their adventures impressed Kedrigern as the sort of people who would turn themselves over to the local torturer at regular intervals and then regale their friends with accounts of the salubrious effects of wrenched limbs and abused flesh.

Kedrigern’s hatred of travel did not blind him to the fact that it might, on occasion, be necessary. Headlong flight from some cataclysmic upheaval of nature was only common sense, and there were times when a client’s needs required on-site presence. But even if a wall of flame were racing toward his cottage, or a dozen kings were shoveling gold coins into sacks to lure him away, he would pack his things and mount up with a leaden spirit. Travel was simply not for him.

Princess did not share his views on the subject. “I’ll go with you, Keddie. I know how you feel about traveling, and maybe if we’re together we can make it a little vacation. We’ll relax and enjoy ourselves,” she said brightly.

Kedrigern made a low grumbling noise. Talk of enjoying travel was, to him, like talk of enjoying a painful illness. If the filthy business could be got over with quickly— get out, get it over with, get back, one, two, three, no dawdling along dusty roads and being victimized at inns and hostels, no suspicious food, no knee-deep mud, no saddle sores—it might be possible to speak of travel as tolerable. It would never be enjoyable, but it might be made tolerable. Just barely. The trouble was that instantaneous transportation fairly burned up one’s resources; there was little point in whisking oneself halfway around the world in the blink of an eye if one had scarcely enough magic left to levitate a spoon when one arrived.

And transforming oneself into a bird, though less costly in magic, was no real solution. The experience of flying was pleasant in itself—not that he was jealous of Princess, not at all, not one bit—but small birds were always being eaten by bigger birds, and big birds were the prey of hunters. Long-distance flying was simply too dangerous. And there was always the problem of the luggage. A bird simply cannot carry enough to provide for a comfortable stay.

There was no way out of it, Kedrigern thought as he sat plunged in both figurative and literal gloom. The only way to travel is to travel, and travel is awful.

Princess rose and lit a taper at the fire. As she lit first the candle on the mantle and then those around the room, the physical gloom was dispelled, but Kedrigern still wallowed in his black mood, and his expression made his feelings plain.

“Our last trip didn’t turn out so badly, if you recall,” Princess said as she turned her attention to the candle on the table.

“They all turn out badly.”

“Well, you certainly seem pleased with the books we got from Arlebar. And I’m very happy with my wings. And you managed to do a lot of good.”

Kedrigern grunted. His expression did not change. Princess was not deterred. “You cleared up all that nasty magic in the Desolation of the Loser Kings. People will be talking about that for centuries to come.”

“That’s true,” he said, softening.

“And you saw some old friends and visited some nice places. It wasn’t all hardships and grubbiness.”

“No, not entirely,” he conceded. “But that was last time, seeking Arlebar, a genuine wizard. Now we’d be after a magic wand. It means tracking down some second-rate wizards and sorcerers, and doing a lot of haggling once we find them.”

“You could ask someone in the guild. They’d know.”

“Oh, dear me, no. The wizards’ guild is very anti-wand. I recall one of our discussions in the early days
.

It was very heated, it was. Hithernils got so excited that he jumped up and shouted, ‘Wands are for fairy godmothers— real wizards wear medallions!’ That settled it. Wands were out.”

Princess looked thoughtful. “Do you have any ideas?”

“Well, I did hear of a fellow, called himself Mergith not his real name, I’m certain.
. .
shifty little weasel,

and not much of a wizard. He was drifting about a few years ago, talking about a magic wand that he could lay his hands on whenever he wanted to. He was almost certainly lying, but he’s the only place to start.”

“Do you know where to find him?”

Kedrigern nodded. “Dendorric,” he said.

“What’s that? And where?”

“It’s a city. South and a bit east of here, I’d say. About twelve or fourteen days’ leisurely riding, ten days if we hurry.” He paused, reconsidered, and said, “Actually, it’s more a fortress than a city. The people of Dendorric have an outpost mentality. They’re located on the pleasant, fertile, sunny side of a river, and they’re afraid that someone from the other side will try to seize their city and drive them out.”

“Aren’t they being silly?”

“Not at all. The other side of the river is all dense dark forest full of thieves, robbers, brigands, outlaws, and wild men. Given half a chance, they’d be on Dendorric like a plague of locusts. But the river’s too swift to cross, and the only bridge is heavily guarded.”

“So Dendorric is safe.”

“Yes, but the people don’t really believe it is, so they’re always looking out for new guarantees of safety. That’s the sort of atmosphere that draws a Mergith and his kind like flies to a stable.” Kedrigern gave a deep and heartfelt sigh at the human condition and the way of the world. He drew, himself up from his chair. “May as well get an early night, my dear. We’ll pack tomorrow, and then
. . . 
Dendorric.”

THE MORNING SUN
was low in the sky when Hamarak had his first sight of Dendorric. It was a sizeable aggregation of buildings, fifty at least, perhaps as many as sixty, clustered in a level area on the lower slope of a hill. The buildings were of every conceivable size, shape, and condition. Atop the hill was a battlemented castle in a poor state of repair. A swift-running river curved in a broad and turbulent arc below the buildings, enclosing settlement, hill, and castle. A single narrow bridge led across.

“We’re here, Louise,” Hamarak announced..

The staff became a sword again. “Hold me up so I can have a clear view,” it said.

Hamarak obliged, wrapping the cloak around his hands and holding the sword as high as he could, grasping the tip. After a brief inspection it gave a little sniff and said, “So that’s Dendorric.”

“It’s one of the great cities of the world,” said Hamarak reverently.

“Bring me down,” the sword commanded, adding, “Dendorric may pass for a great city in this benighted land, but to one who has beard the bells of many-towered Nimachar or seen the sun rise over the gilded rooftops of Ponnomondira, it is a squalid deposit of hovels. The castle 
is a disgrace. However, this is where Mergith is to be found, so I suppose there’s no avoiding it.”

“Mergith rules in Dendorric. The merchant said so, and the robbers.”

“Yes. Mergith the Wizard-King. Insolent puppy!”

“Why does a wizard want to be a king, Louise?”

“Every man wants to be a king, Hamarak. It’s only normal.”

Hamarak thought for a moment, then shook his head, saying, “I want to be a farmer.”

“Well, every
other
man wants to be a king. They crave power, I suppose.”

“But wizards already have greater power than kings. They have magic.”

“Kings have servants, Hamarak. Lots of servants. That means that they can have other people do things for them, and conserve their magic for important things.”

“Like what?”

“Oh
. . .
spells
. . .
enchantments, that sort of thing. Turning people into swords, or shields
. . .“
The sword gave a sudden little cry of pain and rage, and in a quavering voice said, “Oh, poor William! Imagine being a shield— what a dreadful fate!”

For comfort Hamarak said, “I bet it’s nicer being a sword.”

“Marginally. At least our baby sister wasn’t turned into a weapon. That has been some consolation.” Sighing, the blade said, “Enough of this. We must cross the bridge before sunset.”

“Should I go right to Mergith?”

“I think not. Stay at the inn tonight and see what you can find out. I’ll be listening. The ideal thing would be to have Mergith learn of your arrival and summon you himself, but I haven’t yet thought of a way to manage that. I'll give it some thought along the way,” said Louise, returning to the form of a staff.

The guards at the bridge let the lone traveler pass without a question. They were sleepy and hungry, and did not

care much about one man. He found his way to the inn, where the ale was barely potable but the bread, from a nearby bakery, was delicious. Hamarak drank lightly and ate heartily, but learned nothing to serve his purposes. It appeared that Mergith was not an easily accessible man, and was much feared by his subjects.

The next day was no more fruitful to Hamarak's inquiries. He trudged through Dendorric from end to end, up and down the narrow lanes and alleys, ostensibly looking for a few days’ work before he resumed his journey, and found himself answering more questions than he asked. Everyone seemed dubious about his claim that he had traveled from the west, through the forest, alone, and had reached Dendorric alive and whole. The forest was known to be teeming with bands of cruel and murderous men. Each time Hamarak said that he had encountered only five brigands, and bad driven them off, he was faced with unbelieving silence.

That evening he feasted on delicious bread and a thick stew, then fell into his customary deep untroubled sleep. He awoke early, roused by cries and shouts. Rubbing his eyes, he sat up and listened closely. Terrified fragments came through the thin walls: a horde of brigands; the bridge unguarded; Dendorric lost.

“Come, Hamarak. This is our opportunity. Mustn’t dawdle,” said a familiar voice. He looked to where he had rested his staff and saw sunlight from a crack gleaming on the edge of a swordblade.

“What’s happening?” he asked, fumbling for his boots.

“Brigands from the forest are attacking the town. The guards have all run away, and the townspeople are in a panic. So we’re going to drive off the attackers and save
Dendorric.
To the bridge, Hamarak!
And
please remember to call me Panstygia when anyone is listening.”

Hamarak strode past barred doors and shuttered windows, through the silent empty streets, and took up his stand, yawning, at the center of the bridge. Figures had already emerged from the morning mists that lay on the

road he had traveled not two days previously. He was not skilled at counting, but he could see that there were quite a few men on their way to the bridge, and all were armed in some way.

“Will I have to hurt anybody?” he asked.

“lt’s possible. I’ll do my best to concentrate on their weapons,” the sword replied.

“I don’t want to hurt anyone, Louise.”

“These are not nice men, Hamarak. They’re coming here to kill, rape, loot, and burn. They’re cruel and filled with hatred. They’ll show mercy to no living thing.”

After a thoughtful pause, Hamarak said, “Maybe it would be all right if I hurt one or two of them. Just a little. To scare the others.”

“Trust me. If we do this properly, Mergith will be begging to meet us.”

The brigands advanced on the bridge in something resembling a formation. Hamarak stood his ground, sword in hand. When the first rank came close enough to note his features, one of the men cried out, “lt’s him! It’s the swordsman from the west!” and they all came to a disorderly halt.

“Go away,” Hamarak called to them. “No killing, raping, looting, or burning.”

“By whose command? That tinpot wizard on the hill?” someone shouted.

“It is I, Panstygia, Mother of Darkness, who command it!” cried the sword, her voice like the clang of a tocsin. “Defy me now, and I will show no mercy.”

The brigands huddled together, chattering, gesticulating in a wild manner. Hamarak waited patiently, yawning from time to time. At last one of them came forward. Hamarak recognized him as a member of the luckless forest quintet.

“Let us pass unopposed and we’ll spare your life. We’ll even give you a share in the plunder,” he said.

“No,” Hamarak replied.

The man returned to his companions. After more bud-

dling, much shouting, and frequent brandishing of weapons, a different brigand approached him. “Become our leader and help us take Dendorric. We’ll give you a tenfold share and obey you in everything,” he said.

Hamarak shook his head. “No. You have to go away.”

“We won’t. We’ll kill you
and
take Dendorric ourselves.”

Hamarak saw no point in responding. He waited while the man rejoined his fellows. There was a lot of shouting this time, and some very bad language, and then, without warning, the brigands charged
en masse,
straight for him.

Not one passed. The black blade swept across their path, back and forth, like a scythe, and with each stroke a hail of shattered weaponry went pattering into the water below. The force of Hamarak’s strokes sent men reeling, some to collide with their comrades and fall in a tangle, others to topple over the parapet into the swift-running river.

In a very short time, Hamarak stood alone on the bridge, ankle-deep in fragments of metal and wood. A scattered rout of brigands was heading for the forest, some limping from the bridge, others dragging themselves up the far bank of the river.

“My arms are tired. That’s hard work,” Hamarak said.

“I hope you don’t think it was easy for
me,”
the sword said petulantly.

“No. But it’s harder than cutting down trees, or using a shovel.”

Loud noises rose behind him. Tuming, Hamarak saw a crowd assembled at the town end of the bridge. They were cheering and waving to him. Women strewed flowers, and men threw their hats in the air.

“Just as I planned. You’re their hero,” said the sword.

“I am?”

“Of course you are. You’ve just performed a heroic feat and saved their miserable clutter of hovels. In a little while Mergith will hear of it and send for us. This is really going more smoothly than I had hoped.”

“Will they give me breakfast? I’m hungry.”

“They’ll give you anything you want, Hamarak. Just don’t get emotionally involved with any of the young ladies. When Mergith summons us, we must be ready. And please don’t forget to call me Panstygia, Mother of Darkness, whenever you refer to me.”

Hamarak shouldered the blade and trudged toward the crowd, waving genially. They cheered even louder. Children ran forward to greet him and danced along at his side. Pretty ladies threw their arms around his neck and kissed him with great enthusiasm. Men clapped him on the back and clasped his hand warmly.

With Hamarak at their center, the crowd swept through the narrow streets toward the inn, to celebrate in earnest. On the way, they passed the bakery. The owner, apprised of Dendorric’s deliverance, had resumed the morning’s work. The aroma of fresh-baked bread filled the air, and at Hamarak’s request, the crowd stopped here.

“I’d like some fresh bread,” said Hamarak.

“Have some pastry!” a man cried.

“Cookies!” a woman urged.

“A raisin cake!” said a child.

“I only want bread. I like nice fresh bread. Buttered.”

“Then nice fresh bread is what you shall have, savior of Dendorric,” said the fat little baker grandly. He stepped inside and emerged with three rounded loaves of bread still warm from the oven. “My thanks and my compliments,” he announced, amid cheers.

The crowd moved on to the inn, where Hamarak called for butter. While everyone else imbibed, he feasted on the warm bread. Between mouthfuls, he gave an account of the battle on the bridge. Since he was not completely clear in his own mind regarding what had happened, or how, his account was extremely terse. The townspeople were impressed as much by his apparent humility as by his demonstrated prowess. They gazed on him in wonderment.

“That’s a fine sword. I’ve never seen one like it,” a man said admiringly.

“It cut right through the brigands’ blades,” said another. “And look—not a nick in it!”

“It must be magic!” a woman whispered.

“An enchanted blade!” was buzzed about among the assembled townspeople. They gathered more closely around Hamarak to gaze upon the sword in awe.

“This is Panstygia, Mother of Darkness, the great black blade of the west,” he said. “I’m Hamarak. I couldn’t have saved Dendorric without her.”

In the admiring silence that followed this remark, a single figure pushed his way through the crowd to stand before Hamarak. He wore a rust-speckled breastplate and helmet. His cloak was unclean and spattered with mud, and mud was caked on his boots. He carried a pike which he had to hold at an awkward angle because of the low ceiling, and even lower beams, of the inn.

“Are you the one who held the bridge?” the pikeman asked.

A voice from the crowd called out, “He’s the one who saved Dendorric from the brigands!” and another added, “When Mergith’s guards ran and hid in the castle!” Some angry murmuring followed.

The pikeman turned, knocking his pike against a post and drawing amused snickers from the crowd. “Do you think we were afraid of those raggedy beggars?” he asked defiantly.

“No—we think you were terrified!” someone at the rear of the room called out. There was loud laughter.

“It so happens that we knew someone was going to hold the bridge. Mergith is a wizard, you know. He foresaw the whole thing. We were just keeping out of this swordsman’s way so he could fulfill his destiny,” the pikeman said.

This announcement silenced the townspeople. It was a possibility that no one had thought of. They looked at one another uncomfortably. Hamarak, having finished his second loaf, broke the third and began to butter it thickly, a look of quiet contentment on his heavy features. He was quite satisfied to enjoy good bread while he could, and let the others go on talking at each other.

“If Mergith knew that the brigands were coming, why didn’t he tell us?” a woman demanded.

“He didn’t want to worry you,” replied the pikeman.

“He could have told us the swordsman would save us.”

“He didn’t want you getting complacent, either.”

“Those wizards are all alike,” someone muttered.

“I don’t know what you’re complaining about,” said the pikeman. “You’re safe, aren’t you?”

The crowd of townspeople began to melt away, grumbling. Clearly the celebration was over. Reluctantly, with wistful backward glances at Hamarak and his enchanted sword, they began to shuffle to their day’s tasks.

The pikeman turned once again to Hamarak. “The Master wants to speak to you,” he said.

“Do you mean Mergith?”

“Who else? Mergith is the only master around here.”

“Is it all right if I finish my bread first?”

The pikeman glanced about and saw a half-filled pitcher of ale on a nearby table. “You go ahead and finish. I’ll sit over here and wait for you,” he said, commandeering the pitcher.