“They fight!” one of the Ladies near Margie gasped. The whole small column, men, women, and children, had already quickened its pace into a run. The whistle had sounded from somewhere in the rear, where a few minutes earlier the cavalry had dropped back out of sight.
Margie, surrounded by grim, whitedusted, gasping faces, ran with the rest. The pace was not an all-out dash but a long-distance lope, and so far she was keeping up. Somewhere far in the rear, the men of the cavalry shouted, going about their warriors’ trade. Now already the older people in the column were beginning to lag helplessly. No one was going to wait for them. The younger adults pressed on, dragging the smaller children with them as best they could.
Before Margie was totally winded, another whistled signal overtook the refugees. Stumbling with relief, the fleeing column straggled to a halt. Some sat down where they were. Heads turned back. Within a minute, Artos rode into sight at the head of his tiny squadron, all of whom had apparently survived the skirmish in good shape. Artos had his sword in hand, and when he waved it briefly, signaling the walking people to move right on, Margie could see that it was stained. The horses of the cavalry, skittish now, snorting, walking quickly, brought their riders forward, overtaking the pedestrians.
“And the new sword?” an old man, walking, asked Artos anxiously. The speaker had fallen in beside the leader’s horse, on whose saddle Margie now noticed there were no stirrups. None of the saddles had them, she assured herself, looking around. How did the men manage to stay on?
Artos nodded in reply to the old man, who had powerful, gray-furred arms. “Excellent. You forged well.”
The First Lady, hiking nearby in white gown and well-worn sandals, put in a few words grumpily: “There was no time for a proper consecration for the sword. And at the Strong Fort there’s no lake big enough to do it properly.”
“Then, mother,” said Artos, clapping hand to the hilt of the weapon he had just wiped and resheathed, “the consecration will have to be in the using of it. Forward!” He kicked lightly at his mount’s flanks with his heels, and led his squadron cantering ahead.
One of the ladies murmured: “Oh, if only Ambrosius were still around. Artos needs his help, his magic. We all do.”
“Ambrosius is dead, girl.” The First Lady spoke bitterly. “Save your breath for walking.”
Near midday, with the sun as high as it seemed likely to get in the mild sky, there was a halt beside a brook, for which the paved road made way in a simple ford. All the land that Margie had seen here so far was green and flat, except for occasional soft hills, and well-watered with streams and lakes. As they traveled she had seen increasingly more forest, less cultivated ground. What cultivation there was looked to her extremely crude, confined to patchy, stump-studded clearings, fenced if at all with makeshift wooden rails. The land of Hansel and Gretel, she had thought to herself. And then sure enough by God they had passed the woodcutter’s cottage, thatched roof and all, looking not only poor but deserted.
The edged weapons she saw all about her, the stains on the sword of Artos, were impressively real. But this brand of reality only left her all the more deeply embedded in the bloodthirsty world of fairy tales.
The march resumed after a short rest. Soon it overtook livestock being driven in the same direction, by more people with meager belongings packed on their backs. Some of these cheered aloud for Artos when they saw him, all looked relieved when he rode by. First they passed a gaggle of geese, persecuted by children with sticks. Then, presently, a couple of dozen sheep, in the care of armed but not mounted shepherds. The trudging villagers passed up the herders, exchanging a few news items as they passed.
A little later, with Artos and his half-dozen horsemen again scouting ahead, there was a new outburst of whistle-signalling from that direction. Margie was startled out of a state of near-hypnosis into which the rhythm of the march had brought her; but her new talent for understanding let her recognize the signal at once as one reserved for announcing good news. The people she walked among made the same interpretation; there were smiles, and an outburst of chatter. Shortly Artos reappeared ahead, a score of mounted warriors with him now. Obviously contact had been made with some larger, friendly force.
Friendly infantry also came drifting in, equipped much as the villagers were. Amid notable relaxation, another rest stop was decreed. There was a faint smell in the air that Margie recognized as that of wine, and she saw men drinking out of skins. But none of the Ladies were being offered any. She allowed herself a sigh.
At least there was no prohibition against the Ladies relaxing and mingling socially. Margie gratefully unburdened herself of her assigned pack, and drifted closer to where Artos, now seated on the grass, was talking things over with some men of the newly arrived group.
As she approached, she could hear the short man saying: “Would that we had him here; we sorely need his magic. Would that he had at least sent a final message before he met his doom. But evidently he did not. So we must just manage without Ambrosius as best we can.”
“My lord?” Margie broke in impulsively, the first words she had spoken with the aid of her new power. She had framed them in modern English, her mind intending something like Excuse me sir but—What came out, however, had been translated automatically into the language of her hearers, and sounded in Margie’s own ears like, “My lord?”
Faces everywhere turned toward her. The blue eyes of Artos, like those of others round him, showed surprise; in his case, it was a reaction that lasted all of two seconds.
“So,” he asked Margie then. “Whose agent are you?”
“I am the agent of Ambrosius, lord.” Margie spoke confidently, following a plan that was taking form in her mind, fully developed, as she went along. “It is only by his magic that I now have power to understand and speak your language. When I arrived at the village I truly could not.”
Artos was studying her carefully. “And his magic has touched you since then? For what purpose?”
“Truly. There is a message I am to convey to you from him.”
On all sides a babble of excitement rose. Some people were expressing doubts, others were hopeful, ready and waiting to believe. It all quieted when Artos raised a hand. “What then is the message?”
“He wishes you well. He is now—in a place of relative safety.” And Margie, listening to herself, knew sudden inward terror. Where are these words coming from? The First Lady said a little while ago that Ambrosius is dead, but still so many here seem ready to believe what I’m saying. “He bids you to be of good cheer, despite—despite your traitorous son.” She saw pain cross the face of Artos.
Margie drew breath. “And Ambrosius warns you that the Sword—” I don’t understand this at all. “—is to be returned, when you can no longer use it, to the lake.”
Artos, to Margie’s surprise, was nodding at her thoughtfully, at least half inclined to accept the message at face value. “Very well,” the short man said. “If what you tell me is true, I rejoice that Ambrosius is again able to help us with his advice. We’ll see. When we get to the Strong Fort I expect we’ll be able to talk to him in person.”
TWENTY-THREE
Hawk was sitting on a fence, and it wasn’t very comfortable. Actually there were two fences, one physical, one metaphorical, bothering his backside. The physical barrier enclosed a small parking lot on the north side of Chicago. It was about two feet high, with a metal top that was sharply enough angled to discourage sitting by any Skid Row bums who might wander this far from their own turf a few blocks distant. The metaphorical fence, though, was the one that pained Hawk the most: pretty soon he was going to have to get up and go back to Skid Row, or else he was going to have to make a definite decision about what else to do. To make himself start walking in some other direction, into an unknown and therefore frightening future.