Gene Wolfe: The Wizard

And step out we did. “Disiri! Disiri! Disiri!” Some Osterlings had come to know that shout; and whether they knew it or not, we were many. If we were half trained and worse armed, it cannot have been apparent to those who fled us.

We had gone a surprising way west along the river when we met a hundred or so determined to make a stand. Their captain had one of those pole maces they favor. Eterne hewed the iron chaps behind the head and left him with a stick. He flung it at me and tried to draw sword, but I took off his arm at the elbow before I split his helm.

A score of his men were at me like terriers. I remember cutting through two spears and putting my blade in the belly of one tall fellow who looked as if he had eaten nothing but grass for the past month. I recall wondering whether Wistan had sense enough to see to it that the weapons of the men I was killing went to those who needed them. Other than that, almost nothing. It is well to strike hard; but it is better—much better—to strike quickly. Garvaon had taught me, and I struck as quickly as I could, not thinking of Garvaon or much of anything: cut, cut, cut, thrust. Get the shield in front of the eyes. Fast! Fast, before another comes to help. Thrust under it. Thrust hard and deep and very fast, before he gets it down. His leg’s out—kick the knee, fast and hard. Slash before he recovers. I caught one Osterling in his dirty fangs with bottom of my shield, and saw a pike-head in his chest before I could follow up.

They were running, and the riverbank much too far to my left, and ahead a great cloud of boiling dust in which a flag and a few plumes were visible, a cloud so thunderous that the trumpeting of an elephant sounded small and lonely, like the crying of a child. We would take the cloud—the cloud that was an army—in the flank. We would damage and delay it, and that might be enough; but whether it was enough or not, it would turn and crush us. I ordered my brave, desperate, untrained, badly armed troops forward, and ran ahead of them shouting, “Disiri!” Our arrows raked the cloud. It might do some good. Better to die than not fight and know that Rober and Lamwell would have fought like the heroes they were.

And then the dragon roared above us belching flame, and wheeled in air (I had stopped to look up) and came at us so low its wind stirred the parched dust, and straight for me. Its flame washed over me, and its jaws closed on me, burning; but the sun’s last rays were sapping its reality still. It could not lift me or crush me, and our arrows flew through its scales and into its vitals.

It rose with a wild cry that swiftly became a cry of triumph. The sun was setting, and the blazing breath that had been weak as a candle in sunlight strengthened every second. It circled, skimming the Osterling army it had made its own. The shadows that had been sharp when we crossed the river were vanishing, melting into a general darkness. And the dragon, Ben, was as real as I, as real as Setr had been in Aelfrice, a monster of jade and jet.

I had failed to think of Garvaon earlier, and I failed to think of him then—and of Svon, who had fought Setr and lived. There was no time. No time for anything but to shout nonsense at the men who followed me, wave my sword above my head, and dash to meet the dragon.

Knights in antique armor galloped past me. The dragon roared to shake the earth, but they shook it in cold fact. I felt it tremble under the blows of a hundred iron-shod hooves. Lances shattered on the dragon’s scales; two struck home in the fiery mouth. That was when I did the thing I had hoped to do when I spoke with Arnthor, the thing Michael had done beside the pool. All that I had told Toug became true for me; and the Aelf, even Disiri, were less than dreams—only thoughts to be created and dismissed at will. I called for them as a god, and my call compelled them.

The Osterlings before me and the men behind me halted, and in the sudden silence I heard a humming overhead, as if a million bees had taken flight. I looked up, and the sky was full of arrows.

Disiri had come, and two thousand with her: Mossmen and Mossmaidens, Salamanders, Ice Aelf, and the little Bodachan who have in them no delight in war but fight (when they do) because they must, asking no quarter and giving none.

There are songs and tales of that battle, Ben. I know you cannot hear them and I cannot equal them; I will outline it here, but nothing more.

Toug and Rober took the Osterlings in the rear, as I had hoped. We struck the flank—the Knights of the Sword, the Aelf, and those who followed me. The Osterlings held longer than their Caan had any right to expect, fighting the bravest knights the world has seen in a sleet of arrows. Arnthor spoke, their dragons turned on them, and they broke and fled; those south of the river, seeing the battle had been lost behind them, fled too. Great execution was made among them. Greater still when they halted to hold the north bank. They were the best that Osterland had to show, the Spahis and the Caan’s own war band, and few lived.

Beyond that, I can only give some incidents. When we were attacking the flank and everything had been thrown into confusion, I saw as if in a fever two blind men wielding staves, directed by a half-grown child and a woman with a sword. You will have guessed the identity of these four. You will not have guessed that Bold Berthold took a spear in the belly before the moon was high.

Once I fell, and the chief who had stunned me stood over me to strike again. He knew who I was, I think, and hoped that I would beg for my life so that he might boast of it afterward. The scarecrow who saved me had been shaped of moss and mud, of twigs and bark and fresh green leaves. I knew, and taking off the old helm I embraced lovely Disiri there on the battlefield.

Arnthor met the Black Caan at water’s edge. The Black Caan fell, and though the weight of his mail sunk his body, the current bore it away and it was never found. Arnthor lived long enough to learn that we had triumphed, but not longer. Marder and Bahart covered his body and let no one see it; it was burned that night on a pyre of broken lances and arrows, and shattered shields. If I had seen it, I might explain why Gaynor so adamantly refused him. I did not, and offer no guess.

He lacked his brother’s magnetism and vaulting ambition, and it was well he did. He was inclined to brutality and avarice, but kept both in check better than most such men. He was courageous, and just without mercy—or at least with little. His line had provided Celidon with wiser kings and better commanders, but none more cunning. He never unbent, and if he had many willing servants, he had no friends.

There was another incident later. I will tell you that in a later place.

When the battle was over and I had sheathed Eterne, I assembled those I had led. It was only then I learned of Bold Berthold’s wound and realized that he would surely die. Otherwise I might not have chosen as I did.

Toug and Rober were there, and old Gerda, who had helped with the wounded until she could scarcely stand. So were Lynnet, Etela, and Vil. Wistan had a bandage over half his face, put there by Ulfa, and Uns attended him in a way that showed he thought Wistan might faint or die. I made them sit nearer the fire, and sent Pouk for Gylf, whom we had double-chained in the rear to save his life. I did not say much or do anything before they joined us.

“Friends,” I said, and I tried to look past the nearest to the exhausted faces farther from the fire. “I owe you a great deal. I can’t reward you as you deserve, and it may be you will never be rewarded for having saved your country. What I can do is tell you the truth, and let you see what I’m going to do—what I’m going to keep doing ‘til I’m stopped. Which will be soon.” They stirred, but no one spoke.