Greyfax Grimwald (23 page)

“Now tell us more of your strange tale. Were your kin wiped out in the war? Have you a regular sort of home, or is it gone too? You’re young and strong; do you serve any general, or army?”

Exhaustion was quickly overtaking him, and the questions came so fast, he hardly had time to make answers, and he began greatly to desire to return to his natural otter form. Men were certainly a suspicious lot, and no amount of talking seemed to satisfy them. Whatever he said, someone questioned it with some silly nonsense, or accused him of deception, which he did not understand, for he never knew anything of speaking what was false, or of making up a reply. By the tune an hour had passed, he had been questioned steadily and had answered more questions than he had ever dreamed there were in the entire world of Mankind, and still they went on. He longed for his quiet river and his own snug fire, and no one to talk to at all, unless maybe Bear wanted a short chat before going off to bed. At least there they might talk of something sensible. Then he remembered Bear would have found his note when he awakened, and probably searched a little while for him, then resigned himself to waiting. He would be home safe in his cave, reading a page or two from one of the books that lined his shelves, or just simply having a walk, or perhaps making up a new tune. Otter looked around the room at the unfamiliar shapes and faces, down at his own grotesque man form, and wished with all his heart he were there with Bear. Without thinking, he found his hand-paw reaching into his jacket for his reed pipe, and meaning no offense at all to the thin voice that was droning on in his ear, he began to play a lullaby, one of his favorites, which he always played before crawling into his sleeping hammock in his holt by the soft shoulder of the river. When he had finished, he found, to his amazement, that all the men were fast asleep, one with his head upon his hands at the table, another against the side wall, a firearm clutched close to him, the thin-voiced man called Ned, who had been speaking, still standing against the doorframe. The room was filled with the crackling of the dying fire, broken by intermittent heavy snoring. No one stirred a muscle when Otter got up and went to the door to look outside. Even Ned didn’t budge when Otter stepped around him to look at the stars, trying to determine the time. At the gate sentry box, two shadowy forms were propped against their posts.

“Well,” sighed Otter aloud, “of all the things I’ve ever seen or heard tell of!”

He returned to the guardhouse, picked up his knapsack, said a thank-you to the sleeping man who had been kind to him, tweaked the nose of Ned as he crept out, and passed on through the dark streets unseen, until at last he came to the unguarded back gates. This road led away toward allies, and none in that town feared assault from that sector, so no sentinel or beast stood watch from the direction where friendly eyes watched. Walking on as far as he could, Otter felt sleep taking him, so he quickly left the road, entered a thick stand of alders, repeated the ritual to change back into his old form, and found a secure, warm nest of undergrowth for his small body, tried to think out a plan for the morning, grew weary of that, tried to remember all he had learned from his first real encounter with man, giggled quietly into his paws, thought sadly of Bear, all alone now in their safe valley, and fell asleep, dreaming of men with tall helmets, and their endless nightmare of confusing questions.

“They don’t even know any games,” he told himself in his dream. “Being a man is no fan at all,” he concluded, and went back in his mind to the more pleasant pursuit of nose-sliding down a long mudslide, safe by his own holt door.

A
great commotion stirred Ned Thinvoice from his standing sleep.

“Sentry, sentry, where in blazes are you? Open, curse your eyes, before my feet fall off from standing here.”

Ned shook the sleepy web from his eyes to find day faintly rising. All the others still slept.

“Here, hold on. I’m coming.”

He quickly shook the others awake, and went out to draw open the crossbar from the gate. By the sound of the voice on the other side, it couldn’t be less than a major commander. As the gate swung open, three men strode in.

“It’s high time I had you all hided, dolt. Where’s the rest of the scurvy crew? Sleeping late? Breakfast served up in their chambers? Get them to stand down now, soldier,” bellowed the swarthy, mustachioed man, graying slightly at the temples, face bright crimson, uniform adorned at the collar with two iron eagles.

“Sir,” cried Ned, raising one hand in salute, and hurrying off in the direction of the guardhouse.

“And you,” said the commander, turning to the man behind him, “your story rings false from the moment you said you’d come from the east No one has lived in that plague hole for more years now than I can recall. And if you were there, it must have been some business that would turn a decent mind cold with terror. But we shall see.” He coughed, bristled, turned a brighter crimson, spun on his heel, and marched into the guardhouse.

The man addressed was stout taller than the others, dressed in a forest green jacket and trousers, and carried an old, well-used rucksack. He was ill at ease, almost cunning, his large brown eyes going from his guard to the gate, to the door of the guardhouse.

Loud voices erupted from within, followed by the sound of a foot falling on flesh.

“You let him escape, did you? I’ll see to it you all are at the front before the week is out. You shirk there like you do here, and you’ll all end up on a roasting fork. Now get out there, and bring the prisoner in.” The commander’s voice was the same shade of crimson as his face.

“Sir,” blurted Ned, and full of military duty, he marched duly out and grasped Bear by the shoulder.

“In you go, blackguard, double quick.” Ned’s voice was shrill with fear and his own power over his hapless prisoner.

Bear ambled along in his own time, still unused to this clumsy shape he had taken when the two men had come on him on the road; had he not had his senses about him and remembered Froghorn’s words, they would have shot him on the spot Bears were not well thought of among men, he mused, but then obviously neither were other men.

Commander Crimsonface sat at the table as if it were a desk, waiting impatiently as they stood Bear in a respectful position before him. To Bear’s alarm, the commander picked up a short white object placed it in his mouth, lit it, and began smoking from his nose.

“Great crown of Bruinthor, another wizard,” he said aloud, eyes bulging.

“Speak only when spoken to, prisoner. I want your name, number, and outfit. They’ll be pleased to hear we’ve got you.” More smoke, followed by a short coughing spell.

“And if you’re from over there,” he jerked a thumb in the direction they had just come, “you’re in for a jolly surprise.” A snarling smile revealed uneven yellow-stained teeth.

“Speak up; name, number, and outfit. Be quick.”

“I told you, friend, my name is Bruinlen and I have no number. I’m a stranger to these parts, and to your armies. I seek my comrade, who has lost me, and we’re traveling in search of a powerful man beyond the mountains yonder. Our errand is no harm to any of you.”

“Liar. Deserter. Sneaking about in the dark to conceal yourself. No one who is true to the flag has need of night to move about.”

“I move by night and day, for I have need of great haste. I must find my friend once more, for we are upon a great journey to save our dwarf.”

“Dwarf. I saw no dwarf. A half man? Do you expect me to be taken in by this kegtale?”

“Beg pardon, sir,” broke in the man who had been kind to Otter, “but the one who escaped us spoke the same. That he was seeking a great general across the frontier, for some purpose or other.”

“What general? What purpose? Who was he, another deserter, or a spy?” The commander smashed out the white smoke thing under his heavy bootheel.

“I think they’re what they say, sir. I see no evil in them. They carry no arms, and indeed seem stranger to all our ways.”

“If I were caught red-handed, I’d play it sweet and innocent, too. Idiots, all of you. You’d hand them all our plans and pat them for it, and sit back and wait for their friends to have us all up like fish on a platter.”

Bear’s ears picked up at the mention of food, which he thought was the only thing the man had said so far that made sense.

“I wouldn’t mind a platter, if it came to that,” he said aloud, then blushed when the commander whirled upon him.

“What’s that? You wouldn’t mind what? I guess you wouldn’t, seeing as how you’re caught dead center. Guard, take him away. We’ll decide what to do with him when the company relief comes down.” Another white stick hung from his lips, and Bear was led away to a cell behind the guardhouse, wide-eyed and wondering what sort of magicians he had fallen in with now. Nothing these strange men said seemed to have any sense to it, except when they had spoken of eating. His stomach hounded him unmercifully in this form as much as it did when he was his usual self, and he groaned aloud when they took his rucksack away from him and banged the thick steel door shut upon him.

“A sweet keg of molasses this,” he grumbled, alone, imprisoned, hungry, and without the slightest notion as to what he should do. “If only Dwarf had stuck to gardening,” he sighed, looking out the barred window, away toward where the sun had risen, vainly trying to see his peaceful valley with its comfortable river, and his cave, stored with new honey, and combs, and a larder full of bread.

Bear decided his first meeting with Mankind left much amiss, and they seemed never to eat at all. He would, he promised himself, if he ever got away with a whole hide, never meddle in another’s affairs, especially where it concerned wizards or dwarfs, or an otter’s. Somehow, someway, whenever you took up with any but your own, you always suffered.

At dusk, Cranfallow, the man who had spoken up for Bear to the commander, came bringing a tray of food and water. He opened the door wide, and approached Bear in a friendly fashion, setting the food down on the single table before the hard, stiff bed.

“If it’s any comfort, I believed your friend, and you. It don’t seem right what they’re saying. I’ve been in this army all my life, and I’ve got eyes on me, and I think I’m sharp enough to knows a soldier when I see one, enemy or friend, and neither of you fellows seems one to me.”

Bear had fallen on the tray ravenously, smacking and guzzling the soup, bread dripping, and he drained the water jug in a single draft,

“Ahmm. Well now, you wouldn’t have another dish of that handy by any chance, would you, friend? Or my rucksack would do, for I’ve a few staples in that”

Cranfallow laughed good-naturedly, went out, locking the door after him, and returned a few minutes later with a second helping. “You’ve a good enough appetite about you, stranger. But I guess it takes plenty of gruel to fall op a big man’s hunger.”

Bear thanked his deliverer heartily, and finished the bowl and jug. Cranfallow made no motion at leaving, standing idly in the door, studying him. “Just what exactly are you going to find this fellow across the frontier for? Does he have men, or arms, or wealth? And what help can he be to you there?”

Bear looked long into the man’s eyes before answering.

“I see you mean me no harm, friend, so I’ll tell you a little of my long tale, and what my companion and I started out upon,” and Bear, half full, and recovering from the slow faint he had almost fallen into from hunger, began relating his story, omitting only Greyfax and Froghorn, for he felt any mention of their names would only bring him fresh disaster, and far into the setting darkness, his voice went on, and Cranfallow fell under his spellbinding, incredible tale. When at last Bear disclosed how he had been captured, the man stood up, shaking his head.

“I think you must be either a witch or a jester, I don’t know which, friend, but your story has given me much pleasure. Wait until I tell this to my messmates.” He chuckled, picking up the tray, and turning, started to thank Bear once more for his amusing story. The tray clattered loudly to the floor, smashing the jug into tiny white particles, and his eyes went wide with horror and disbelief. There before him was the monstrous huge hulk of a standing bear, reddish brown with gray-white tips at ear and tail, and a great, neat vest of white upon his chest.

“You see, friend, I speak truly,” said Bear gently, examining his forepaws, and looking downward to make sure his hind paws were right.

Cranfallow was slowly backing for the door, his speech gone, eyes bursting from their sockets.

“A bloody witch,” he gasped, preparing to flee.

“No, friend, a bear, and one who doesn’t harm a” friend. Come, stay a moment and hear me out.” Bear sat down upon his great haunches, and motioned the man back.

Half from fright, half from curiosity, Cranfallow halted where he was, out of reach, and with the safety of flight close at hand.

“My comrade is an otter, a small, gray furry fellow with more fun than sense in his ally head, and that’s why it’s most important I find him, before he gets himself into something he hasn’t the faintest idea how to handle.” Bear held up a great paw to a height of about three feet to describe Otter.