The Dog and the Wolf by Poul Anderson Page B

to hear much more. It’s close-mouthed you’ve been, I must say.”
    Maeloch felt too weary after his sleepless night to press the matter. He sat dully on a bench outside and rebuffed Usun’s anxious questions. Áebell was nowhere about. Had she sought another mate elsewhere, or was she simply staying from him till he could get over his failure? He cared naught. His wife and children, the first grandchild, those were encamped in him.
    Áebell returned at midday. With her rode a troop of warriors. Their spearheads rose and fell to the onwardness of the horses, like wind-rippled grain. At their head was a tall man with golden hair and beard begun to turn frosty. A seven-colored cloak fluttered from his shoulders.
    The household swarmed forth. The sailors drew together and advanced behind. Their weapons were in the hostel. “Lord Niall!” cried Cellach. “A thousand welcomes. What brings you to honor us again?”
    The King’s smile was bleak. “Your daughter, as you can see,” he answered. “She rode through the night to tell me of men from Ys.”
    Some women gasped and some men gaped. Cellach held steady. “I felt the breath of such a thought myself, lord, that they are Ysans,” he said. “But I was not sure. How could you be, Áebell mine?”
    She tossed her head. “What else, the way he turned cold? And Ys was the enemy of Niall from before my birth.” She edged her mount toward the tall man.
    Aye, thought Maeloch, Scotic women were free, and therefore keen and bold, as Roman women were not. As women of Ys were, in their very different way. He should have remembered.
    Niall looked over heads, pierced him with a lightning-blue stare, and said, “You are the captain.”—in Ysan.
    Maeloch stepped to the fore. The heaviness was gone from his limbs, the terrors from his heart. It was as if he stood outside his body and steered it. Thus had he been in combat or when close to shipwreck. “Aye,” he said, “and ye too ha’ lately fared from my city.”
    “I have that.”
    “What did ye there?”
    Niall signed to his followers. They leaped off their horses and took battle stance. “Prepare yourself,” he said quietly. “Ys is no more. On the night of storm, Lir came in.”
    At his back, Maeloch heard Usun croak like one being strangled, another man moan, a jagged animal noise from a third. “How wrought ye this?” he asked, well-nigh too low for anybody to hear.
    Niall bit his lip. “Who are you to question me? Be glad I don’t cut you down out of hand.”
    “Oh, ye’ll get your chance. Come fight me, or forever bear the name of craven.”
    Niall shook his head. “The King at Temir is under gess to fight only in war.” He nodded toward a giant in hisband. “There is my champion, if you wish a duel.” That man grinned and hefted his sword.
    “’Tis ye that hell awaits,” Maeloch stated.
    “Hold your jaw!” Áebell shrilled furiously.
    A chillier wrath congealed Niall’s features. “My task is unfinished until naught whatsoever remains of Ys, the city that murdered my son and my good men. Your insolence has doomed
you
likewise.”
    “My lord!” Cellach thrust his mass in front of Maeloch. “These are my guests. On my land they have sanctuary. Heed the law.”
    For an instant Niall seemed about to draw blade and hew at him. Then the King snapped a laugh. “As you will, for as long as you house them.”
    “That will be no longer than they need to take ship, lord.” Cellach looked over his shoulder. “Be off with you,” he spat. “It’s lucky you are that there is no craft on hand for pursuing you.”
    “Nor harbor for you at journey’s end,” Niall gibed.
    How fierce must his hatred be, that he stooped to mockery of helpless men? Or was it something deeper and still more troubling? Maeloch was as yet beyond all feelings, like a sword or a hammer; he knew remotely that later he must weep, but now his throat spoke for him:
    “Aye, well may the memory of Ys glimmer away, for the Veil