“My pleasure, mate.” The half-imp reached for the haft of the pockmarked scimitar fastened to his hip. How surprised we all were when, a split second later, the poor bastard fell dead with two arrows piercing his heart. He had only a moment to stare incredulously at the two shafts before giving up the ghost.
“Nice grouping,” remarked one of the dwarfs.
The elf might have made a clean getaway—but as luck would have it, a patrol of guards swung by on their midnight rounds. Three beefy soldiers wielding broadswords stepped up to the fire. The elf studied their approach. If thoughts of his head in a basket rattled him, he didn’t show it.
“What’s all this then?” asked the patrol sergeant.
12
Why I did what I did at that moment, I can’t precisely say. Perhaps it was my innate understanding that a good bowman would make a valuable ally. I know what you’re thinking—an elf with a bow, how clichéd. Like all good clichés, this one is rooted in truth; elves learn the bow before they’re weaned from the tit. It’s the only way their armies can prevail on the battlefield, as they tend to pussy out when the slaughter gets personal. In my youth, I disdained the bow as an unmanly weapon; after a few years of adventuring with elves, I learned wisdom. Never close with an enemy you can dispatch from a safe distance.
So, I leaped up and presented myself to the sergeant. “I saw the whole thing, sir,” I said.
“Let’s have it, then.”
“He fell on them.”
“Fell on what?”
“The arrows.” I pointed at the two shafts stuck in the half-imp’s chest. “He fell on them.” I looked to the two dwarfs for help. They glanced at each other, then at the sergeant.
“Right,” they said. The elf said nothing.
“Fell on them, did he?” asked the sergeant. The guards chortled together. “Poor blighters fall onto arrows all the time, don’t they? Why, just the other day me mum-in-law tripped on the sofa and got a bolt right up her cooze. Unlike this bloke, I’d say she fancied it!”
As the guards exploded in laughter, I stepped closer to the sergeant. “Look here,” I said, intending to slip him a few of the pennies I had left in my pocket. “There’s no harm done. What’s one less imp-spawn in the world? Why don’t we just—”
An arrow shaft sprouted from the sergeant’s right eye. Two more arrows pierced the throats of the other two guards. The three shots took less than two seconds. The sergeant looked right at me with his remaining eye, his gaze laced with wild surprise and annoyance. Then he dropped dead.
I wheeled around to face the elf. “Why the hell did you do that?” I bellowed.
But the elf was gone, bounding toward a nearby hay barn with a flaming brand from the fire clutched in his hand. He lobbed the brand through the barn’s open loft, then fled into the darkness. Within seconds, the barn was ablaze.
There’s gratitude for you, I thought. No wonder they were a dying race.
13
I took off after the elf. A nearby gang of Southrons saw him torch the barn, which prompted them to leap up from their own fire and start torching other buildings. Vaulting over another campfire, I plowed straight into the two dwarfs, who were now beating the bard with his own lyre. More fights broke out. Mobs formed. Gangs of filthy, underfed refugees clashed, wailing on one another with fists, staves, and blades. I got caught up in it and had to deal out punishment myself just to stay alive. That bloody elf had started a riot.
For a half-hour or more the raging mobs surged, until the Redhauke Guard emerged from the Chimera Gate in full riot gear. They formed up behind a pair of dwarf-designed street cleaners—fearsome steam-powered battle tanks fronted with whirring scythes that took limbs and heads without mercy. Close behind these mechanical beasts followed the guards, firing crossbows liberally into the crowd, aiming for the biggest targets they could find. That’s when I took cover under a capsized hay wagon. No magic girdle was going to protect me from a crossbow bolt in the heart.
Experienced as they were in such matters, the Guard soon had the crowd under control. Bucket brigades formed to douse the bigger fires. A few smaller outbuildings burned the rest of the night, lifting their oily coils of smoke into the starless sky. As a lesson to troublemakers, the bodies were left to lie until morning.
When the carnage at last abated, I picked my way through the bodies and rubble back to the campfire. The elf sat alone on a stump, roasting a potato on a stick as if nothing had happened. His bow lay handily nearby. I took a seat near him.
“That was some diversion, elf,” I said, “but it was overkill. I could have paid those guards off for five coppers each and been done with it.”
“I didn’t ask for your help,” the elf said, keeping his gaze on his potato.
“If a man only receives help when he asks for it, then he lacks character,” I said. “Let’s just say I was in the mood to make a friend tonight. What did you have against the imp-spawn, anyway?”
The elf looked up, and his eyes were the crystalline blue of a frozen Northern lake. The rumor of a smile brushed his lips.
“He called me a pointy-eared magic boy,” he said.
That got me—I burst into laughter. I hadn’t laughed that hard since my brother fell down a well. The elf’s smile crept closer.
“My name is Lithaine,” he said. “I have no drink, but I have potatoes and bread. Make a meal, if you wish.”
“I have the drink,” I said, reaching for my flask. “Let’s toast our homelands. Where’s yours?”
The elf’s smile fled, and his mood changed from overcast to threatening rain. His eyes narrowed to slits.
“Let’s get one thing straight,” said Lithaine. “You ask me where I’m from again, and I’ll kill you. Got it?”
I shrugged. “Don’t worry about me, elf,” I said. “I like you—you’re uncomplicated.”
Then we both laughed, together. His friendship was won. That’s how I met Lithaine, my oldest and dearest friend. Now, he’s coming to kill me. From his perspective, I certainly deserve it.
14
From the earliest days of my legendary career, Lithaine and I were inseparable. Wilberd I met several years later. Then there was Amabored: the most ferocious, bloodthirsty son of a bitch with whom I ever had the pleasure of campaigning. The wizard Redulfo completed the original quartet, long before he made the unfortunate decision to open an enchanted egg in the Temple of Pain Eternal on the Sunless Sea, absorbed the Bad Brain, and had his alignment transformed from Neutral Good to Lawful Evil. We sort of avoided him after that. People change, sure, but within reason, and who wants a fucking evil mastermind around anyway? Tough break for him, especially after we incinerated his corpse and the Crimson Hand transferred his soul into the body of a big, stinky black dragon. Was it our fault that we had to kill him twice?
Cassiopeia came along just in time to for me to fuck over Melinda. There was the paladin Malcolm, a standup warrior who didn’t deserve what he got from Lithaine at the end. The ranger James wound up living the good life after marrying the Queen of Kenwood. The half-elf Lindar and the dwarf Andrigan joined the team late; they were both skilled adventurers, though I seem to remember keeping Lindar’s corpse pickled in a barrel for a few weeks until we could get him to a cleric for a proper resurrection. Others, names too numerous to mention, came and went. Some came to a bloody end. Those of us who survived did so by finding an edge and exploiting it. I had my magic girdle and my double-bladed battle-axe. Amabored bore the sword Stormcrow, Lithaine his bow and angel-haunted blade. To prosper as an adventurer, you must deal death swiftly; those who fail to develop this skill soon become fertilizer. When you see a Gelatinous Cube bearing down on your ass in some dank dungeon corridor, it’s time to put on your big-boy pants.
By the time we were tasked with saving the Woerth, the lineup of heroes was set: Amabored, Lithaine, Malcolm, James, Wilberd, Andrigan, Lindar, Cassie, and me. Together, we formed the Second Quest of the Dread Plain: each one of us essential to the succ
ess of this Quest, each destined to bear a piece of Koschei’s unbearable soul. Not long after Koschei fell and the acclaim died down, our egos got the best of us. We argued, split into factions, and talked shit about each other. And in our own way, each one of us went mad.
Take Amabored, for instance. Last year, I had occasion to meet him again. I hadn’t seen him for two years prior, at least. I was in Kenwood attending some ceremony or another at the invitation of James, who had served as the country’s regent since the fall of Koschei. Kenwood is a land of rolling hills and hedgerows, sheep country, the sort of green and pleasant land that people think Ireland is, until they arrive and see what the Irish have done to it. James had it soft: The Queen was a knockout, the kingdom was at peace, the gentry was landed and prosperous, and the peasants knew their place. He spent most of his free time roaming the back forty with his Ranger crew, slaughtering the occasional imp raiding party and holding forth with tales of high adventure at the border pubs. He enjoyed peace of mind that I could only admire from a distance.
When we sat up late one night in his study smoking cigars and drinking good single-malt Scotch, however, James looked troubled. We hardly ever found it necessary to reminisce about the old times. We had both stared into the Abyss, had both seen our naked souls exposed before us like quivering jellyfish. What was the point of scratching at old scars? Something was bugging him, but he was too much of a stoic to spit it out.
“What’s the matter?” I asked. “Queen Arianna won’t give your pecker a rest?”
“We’re fine, thank you.” James sat facing the fire, his boots resting on the haunches of one of his sleeping mastiffs. Years of weathering had given his face the look of a ruddy hillside; his bushy gray mustache adorned his lip like a lion lounging on a rock. The haunted look in his eyes from the Dread Wars was mostly a memory.
“What is it, then?” I asked. “You look like my grandfather’s ball sack.”
James poured himself another dram of scotch. He held the glass to his eye and watched the firelight caper through the amber prism.
“Amabored is in country,” he said finally.
“Mother of God! Amabored? When? Where?”
“He’s camped out in the Beradon Forest. Been there a fortnight. Him and about two hundred men.”
“Then why the hell isn’t he here drinking with us?”
“You haven’t seen him lately, Elberon. He’s changed, and not for the better.”
That wasn’t news. We had all changed, each of us damaged in some irreparable way. But Amabored was always the best of us: the strongest, the quickest wit, the bravest, the most dependable. In his youth, he bore the air of a proud archangel come to Woerth to stir up shit for the mortals. The Bronze God, we called him. Men feared him; women spread their legs for him. In battle, his trusty broadsword whirled overhead like a helicopter blade, slicing through bone and sinew at will. Stormcrow was its name; when it took a life, it rent the air with a teeth-rattling thunderclap, a white-hot net of lightning arcing along its tempered length as our enemies evacuated their bowels. There were several kings’ ransoms offered for his death or capture, but they never touched him. Some thought him demon-possessed.
To me, however, he was just Amabored. Around the campfire, he used to fart loud enough to set the wolves howling. He undertook epic drunken benders that lasted for weeks. He and I nearly came to blows more than once; although I was supremely confident in my abilities, I was never certain that I could take him. He was a badass son of a bitch, and I was glad to have him on my side.
Who knew how he had changed since? It had been ten years since I’d laid eyes on him. Time is a toilet, and our lives spiral down the bowl.
“So what?” I asked. “None of us have changed for the better. Mostly, we’re just parodies of our younger selves.”
“He’s found religion,” James said.
“Really? You mean, beyond the usual lip service?”
James stood and reached for his cane. He had nearly lost a leg at the hand of the undead knight Eckberd in the great siege of Helene—the same leg that was crushed into jelly during the bugbear ambush in the Shadow Pass. Cassie did the best she could for him at the time, but those black blades don’t just hew flesh and bone—they leave a scar on your soul. Just ask a certain famous halfling I could mention.
“This is wild-eyed, scroll-thumping stuff,” James said. “He’s preaching the Awakening. The Millennium is bringing the crazies out of their caves, but I never thought Amabored was the type. There has to be a score in it somewhere.”
I stroked my beard. “Odd. Self-destructive. Does he pose a threat?”
“Not yet. But he’s building a cult—or an army. The peasants I can handle, but he’s converted a few of my Rangers. I need my Rangers. The borders are getting dangerous again.”
“Did you tell him to knock it off?”
“Not in so many words. He’s a mate, you know. What can you do?”
“He has to be playing an angle. We just need to figure out what it is. You’ve invited him to the palace?”
“Yes. He won’t come.”
“Then we’ll ride out to see him,” I said. “Have a couple of horses ready at dawn.”
15
The ride through Kenwood took two days. We spent the night at an inn near the Royal Turnpike, where we signed a few autographs and posed for a few pictures with the innkeeper. The barmaid was a comely lass with huge tracts of land, and in my younger days, I would have happily sheathed my sword in her warm scabbard. But my younger days were a lifetime ago.
We set out on the road again at dawn with James’ small band of retainers trailing us along the Turnpike. Having the opportunity to study James at length, I found that he lived a life of rare equanimity. What had he ever wanted but a forest clearing and a star-strewn sky? The fame, the adulation, the chance to stamp his imprimatur on the wealthiest kingdom south of Redhauke—he could toss it all in the shitter without a second thought. His association with Kenwood bought him security and freedom. We had cashed in, he and I, as a reward for the terror we had endured. Yet, even as James found contentment, the same eluded me. I could only chalk it up to some fundamental flaw in my own character.
Toward evening of the second day, we rode down from a range of low wooded foothills into a shallow river valley a few marches across. Draped in valley mist lay the river, which curved around a forested peninsula before slipping off into the foothills. There were no bridges in sight.
“That’s the Beradon,” James said. “The ferry will take us across.”
I recognized the landscape—we weren’t far from the site of my epic battle with Redfang the Terrible, so many years ago. Amabored had chosen a strong defensive position; if I recalled the map correctly, there was marshland on the other side of that forest. With two hundred men and the river at his back, he could hold out against a siege indefinitely. Or at least until James called down his war barges.
When we had crossed a third of the valley, we were met by a team of five outriders—hardened campaigners with notched blades, pitted armor, and scarred flesh. They might once have been mercenaries, but now their eyes burned with the illuminating light of the one true faith. Whatever Amabored was feeding them, they were gorging on it.
Their captain, a sweaty brute with a deep scar splitting his face, nodded his welcome. A loaded crossbow swung from his saddle.
“Lord James, Lord Elberon,” the captain said. “Lord Amabored sends his regards. If you’ll follow us, please.”
James and I exchanged a look. The lands for a thousand miles were at peace. No imp horde would dare show its colors within the Kenwood borders. And yet, by the look of this crew, you’d think there was a war on. As we picked our way along the path, the guards were all appropriately deferential. Behind their deference, however, they were jovial, arrogant, and unimpressed with our celebrity. James and I could slay every man-jack without breaking a sweat, but they didn’t care. They grinned at us, and they grinned at each other. It was disco
ncerting.
A short ride later found us at the ferry. “You’ll need to leave your mounts and retainers here, my Lords,” said the captain, “and turn over your weapons to us.”
James and I exchanged another look.
“My ass,” I said.
“Lord Amabored’s orders, I’m afraid,” said the captain, taking a step back to stand with his men. “No weapons within the camp.”
“Amabored giving orders in my own kingdom?” snorted James. “You tell him to shove those orders up his ass!”
There came the familiar sound of a metallic snake slithering swiftly around us. We had heard that snake a hundred times before, and our reaction was instinctive. James’ sword sliced open one guard. My axe sent another’s arm spinning from his shoulder. Then came a flash of multihued light and some music, and I found myself toppling over, my every muscle turned to concrete. I couldn’t move an eyelash.
A guard rolled me over, and then the captain loomed over me with an unrolled scroll in hands. A Paralyzation charm, no doubt—and, thank Odin, not the fatal kind, since my heart and lungs still worked.
“Forgive the sorcery, my Lords,” said the captain, “but I can’t have you slaying any more of my men before we get you to your quarters. If Lord Amabored permits, you may then slay as many as you like.”
The outriders buried their dead, picked us up like sacks of wheat and delivered us to another armed escort on the ferry. I was livid. Paralyzation charms wear off—and when this one did, I was going to kill every armed man within fifty leagues of this valley. Starting with Amabored.
Across the river, we were transferred to a third team, who loaded us onto litters and dragged us onto a path flanked by a pair of wooden guard towers topped with trebuchets on swiveling mounts. The crest of the ridge overlooking the river had been converted into breastworks. I had laid enough sieges in my day to know how tough this place would be to assault; those trebuchets could hurl a spear through a suit of plate armor.
The Screaming Skull Page 5
