Surgard Tricks a Trickster

Surgard’s father once told him, when he was still a boy, “If you gamble, make certain you’re a clever gambler, unless you want to lose.” His father always prized cleverness, even though the trait seemed to be in little favor in all the sagas the young man heard. But a boy should listen to his father, and Surgard was glad he had as faced Favig, God of Tricks, with only two dice in his hand.

The path to this dangerous wager began earlier that morning. Surgard’s village was the site of the seasonal Theng. Clansmen and heroes from all parts of the Northern Land were there to discus important matters, settles disputes between clans, and listen to the newest tales. As of that morning the Theng hadn’t yet started. Surgard’s duty, along with the other young men of the village, was to prevent new disputes from breaking out before the old ones were resolved.

Shortly after dawn Surgard was pacing between two such clans, the Volsud and the Ruygord. He watched the rivals like a hungry hawk surveying fat mice. He was not certain, however, that he could calm the winds of anger should trouble appear. He almost didn’t hear the old man approach. At the last moment he did. He turned left, gripped the hilt of his sword, and raised a palm. “Name yourself, old man,” he ordered.

The man smiled a toothless smile. “Easy, young fellow, I’m not a threat.”

“Let me judge that.”

“Don’t get testy now. I’m just a wandering old soul in search of a meal. Just get me a bowl and some bread, and I’ll be on my way.”

“Well, there’s plenty of food to be had. Keep going the way you’re going.” Surgard started to turn away.

“I don’t know anyone here.”

“Old man, I can’t leave my post.”

“Not for moment? Not to give an ancient body a bit of nourishment?”

Surgard sighed. He glanced around. The two clans were still in their camps, eating. No one even looked half-way interested in mixing things up. Still, trouble could break out in an instant.

He looked back at the old stranger. The man was thin, stooped, and his body shook. He did need food. He was a guest, albeit uninvited. Well, I suppose this won’t take long enough to be of concern.

“All right. Come with me.” He led the old man past a handful of houses to a wide tent. The youth slipped inside, then emerged a moment later with a bowl of stew and a fat piece of fresh bread. “Here you go. Eat wherever you like. No one’s going to bother you.” He turned to walk back to his post.

“Wait!” The man put the bowl on the ground. “No one has been so kind to me without asking any questions or making any demands.”

“Well, I am rather busy...”

The man waved a skinny hand. “No, you deserve a proper thanks.” He reached into his cloak, took out two tiny cubes, and handed them to Surgard. “These are magic dice. They’ll always come up opposite from how your foe desires.”

Surgard considered the dice. “Oh, I shouldn’t...”

“No, I insist.” He leaned close to Surgard. “Wagering is a young man’s game. I’m too old to be taking young men’s money and such.” He winked. “Go ahead, take them. Use them in good health.” He picked up the bowl, said, “Thank you,” then wandered away.

Surgard drifted back to his post, staring at the wooden dice. He was halfway there when he remembered that he hadn’t gotten the man’s name. He looked back to call to him, but saw nothing. He frowned. “Not a good sign, this.”

Sure enough, as he returned, he heard shouting. A man on a horse rode by at a fast pace. Surgard only caught a glimpse of the rider. More important things were on his mind. He got between the clans just in the nick of time.

“What’s going on here?” he demanded.

One of the Volsuds pointed at an opponent. “Those fools have too much sleep in their eyes!”

A Ruygord shook a fist. “It’s you that have the bad eyes!”

“Silence!” Surgard shouted. It suddenly became quiet as death. Surgard cleared his throat. 

“Could someone explain to me, calmly, what’s causing this anger?”

The leader of the Ruygords, Deknor, stepped forward. “A man rode between us wearing a fancy hat. One of my men met a Volsud, and asked if he saw the man’s red hat.”

“It was blue!” another Volsud shouted.

“Red!”

“Blue!”

Surgard raised his hands. “Wait!” He looked to the Volsuds. “You are certain that you saw a man ride past wearing a blue hat.” They were. He turned to the Ruygords. “And you are certain that the hat you saw was red?” They were. Surgard glanced into the village. He could see no rider wearing any hat. “Odd that the fellow’s long gone.”

He looked around the village, hoping to see the man. He didn’t see the rider, but he did notice another of his friends standing between two other clans, trying to quiet them. He pointed that out the Volsuds and the Ruygords, then said, “I smell a trickster at work.”

“An inspired guess,” a nasal voice dismissed. Everyone turned in the direction of the voice. They saw a tall, skinny, dark-haired man approach the village. He walked between the clans and up to Surgard. He towered over the youth as he said, “What makes you doubt that one clan is right and the other wrong?”

“A two-colored hat that causes loud arguments? Worn by a man who disappears into the air? And on the eve of a seasonal Theng?” Surgard shook his head. “Sounds like another trickster tale to me, and one featuring the Trickster God at that.”

“Brave words, boy. Will you back them up with a brave deed?”

Surgard pressed his lips together. Now what? he thought. I’m challenging Favig, and I don’t have anything on my side. He put his hands on his hips. He touched his money pouch, and felt the wooden cubes. The dice? He nodded to himself. Now I see how where this tale is going.

And so, his spirit lifted by his knowledge of tales and his father’s advice, Surgard calmly removed the dice from the pouch. “I don’t think this is worth fighting about, but I will challenge you, stranger.” He held them in front of everyone. “I say that you are Favig, and that you’re behind this dispute. Roll these dice and call your sign. If you fail to roll one sign, you must confess, and swear to cause no more trouble until the Theng ends.”

“And if I roll my sign?”

“You may make us forget all this, and create as much chaos as you wish.”

The dark-haired man grinned a wide grin. “Now that’s a wager I’m happy to accept.” He stretched out an open palm. Surgard placed the dice in his hand. The man closed his palm and began to shake the hand. “Since the moon is Favig’s sign, I think I’ll choose the sun for mine.” He knelt down, and cast the cubes onto the ground.

The crowd gasped.

Two moons faced their eyes.

A mighty cheer went up from the rivals in unison. Men slapped Surgard’s back. Others shouted his name. Both leaders summoned their bards.

The god’s shoulders slumped. He looked up at his young foe, his face a mask of anger and humiliation. “I don’t know how you did it, but you win.”

Surgard bent down and retrieved the dice. “So keep your promise, and go.”

Favig snorted, glared at the mob of mortals, then snapped his fingers. A cloud of red, foul-smelling smoke arose. A sudden breeze swept it away, and he was gone. The mob cheered once again. That night, and for the three nights of the Theng, they and many others sang of Surgard’s victory.

Once the Theng was over, however, Surgard had to help clean up the village. His part in the newest saga mattered little when there were tents to clean and food to be stored. By the end of the first night after the meeting, the glow of his triumph was as dim as the new moon in the sky.

With his chores mostly done, and the light from the sunset almost gone, Surgard wandered into the woods near the village. The wager, the songs, and the return to reality were too much to dismiss with sleep. He wanted to breathe some night air, think about what had happened, and try to make sense of it.

Once again, he almost didn’t hear the old man approach, but turned at the last moment. But this time he wasn’t facing a wizened dry twig. He faced a tall, stout man wearing a fine dark cloak and a broad-brimmed leather hat. He held a hefty walking stick in his right hand. His gray eyes blazed.

Surgard gulped. “Lord Durn?” he stammered in a small voice.

The man bowed. “The same, young Surgard.”

“What brings you here, Great Lord?”

“Well, for one thing, I’d like my dice back.”

The young man gasped. “It was...?” He shook his head. “I should have known that it was you. Who else would try to foil one of Favig’s tricks?” He reached into his coin pouch, dug out the dice, and handed them over.

“Thank you.” Durn glanced around the forest edge. He saw a rock outcropping, walked to it, and sat down. He motioned for Surgard to sit in front of him, on the ground. As the youth sat he said, “As I recall, your memories of the sagas you’ve heard helped you in your wager with Favig.”

Surgard shrugged. “Aren’t stories supposed to teach us how to deal with life’s troubles?”

“Yes. But if their only purpose was to teach, why tell the story? Why not just teach the lesson?”

Durn’s tone suggested that he wanted an answer, so Surgard took a few moments to ponder his reply. “I suppose that the lesson isn’t as exciting as the story. You remember a good story, long after you hear it. You might not remember a simple lesson.”

Durn nodded. “Now, tell me, what do you think the lesson of your little story is?”

Surgard took more time to answer. “Um, that you should always remember the stories you hear? That someday you might need the wisdom they contain?” He frowned. “Is there something wrong with that?”

“Oh, yes.”

“What?”

“Well, think about this way. Your story is telling others to listen to other stories that tell them how they should behave. Somewhat complicated, don’t you think?”

Surgard nodded slowly. “Yours is a story,” Durn continued, “based on other stories, that themselves may be based upon still more stories. And what’s more, yours isn’t really a new story, just a variation on older ones.”

“I think I understand that.”

“I had a feeling that you would.”

A creeping darkness fell over Surgard’s mind. “What do you mean by that?” he asked, trying to keep panic out of his voice.

“Surgard, I want you to help me with this problem.” Durn took his left hand into his right. He pulled a ring off his left ring finger. He held it up for the young man to see. 

“You see this ring? This is Mymwir, the Ring of Learning.”

“I know,” Surgard interrupted. “You used it to acquire all your wisdom. You’ve placed a spell on it so that only those you want to use it can use it.”

Durn glared at the youth mildly. “Now do you see my problem? I’m Lord of Bards, and everyone knows all the stories, and all the stories about the stories. All the stories are combining, or repeating each other, or only make sense if you hear other stories. This whole system is going to break down if the bards don’t get some new stories to tell. Which is why I’m going to give Mymwir to you.”

“What?”

“Surgard, son of Holtnor the Sword-Smith, I call upon you to go out beyond the Northern Lands. I call upon you to learn about the peoples living beyond my domain, what Gods they worship, what their heroes and villains are, and what magical beasts they face. I grant you use of Mymwir, so that you will not forget what you learn, and so that I will learn what you learn. Stand up.”

Surgard popped up like a startled bird. Durn rose like the morning sun. He took Surgard’s right hand, and gently slipped the dark blue band onto his ring finger. He took the hand into his right, then raised his left hand to the sky.

“As I command, so shall it be done.”

Surgard wriggled his hand free of the God’s grip. “Wait! I’m not experienced enough to leave my home. What sorts of dangers am I going to face? What if those people hate strangers? How am I going to survive?”

Durn waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, don’t worry, boy. I’m not sending you off to fight. I’m sending you off to listen. Have you ever met a bard who didn’t want someone to hear him tell stories?”

“No.”

“Well, there you are. Surgard, you have nothing to fear, and everything to learn.”

The youth cleared his throat. “I hate to say this, Great Lord, but I think I heard something like that in another story once, and it wasn’t true then.”

*****

First published in Eclipse, Volume 1, Number 15, Winter 1996.

This is the first story in my collection The Sagas of Surgard. For more information on the collection, go here: http://robertlcollins.blogspot.com/p/my-sff-books.html - scroll to the bottom of the page for store links.