Once In a Blue Moon

by Simon R. Green

  • • •

  The Alchemist wasn’t in any mood to be lectured. So Hawk knocked him down and sat on him, while Fisher lectured him very sternly until he agreed that they were right and he was wrong, and would they please let him up now as he still had some fires to put out.

  • • •

  Hawk and Fisher walked on through the long, curving wooden corridors, going up and down stairs as the mood took them, peering into any room that attracted their attention, and even a few that were trying really hard not to. All the Tree’s ceilings were marvellously smooth and polished, even though no one ever polished or waxed them. The Tree looked after itself. Whoever originally carved out the interior of the Millennium Oak had done an excellent job. Current scientific theory was that the Tree allowed it to happen, and probably even cooperated in the process, on the grounds that it was hard to conceive of anyone powerful enough to enforce their will upon the Millennium Oak. Various sorcerers had tried, in very small ways, because some sorcerers just couldn’t resist a challenge, and usually ended up with headaches that lasted for days. One had been heard to wail plaintively, Dammit, the Tree’s realer than we are! Before someone led him away for a nice lie-down with a damp cloth over his eyes. The latest thinking was that the Tree had allowed its hollowing-out because it was lonely and wanted to be occupied, for the company. A theory that was really disturbing only if you thought about it too much, so most people tried very hard not to.

  Many people had lived inside the Millennium Oak, and used it for many purposes, down through the years. The Tree didn’t discriminate. The original Hawk and Fisher found the Tree deserted and abandoned, and just moved in. The Tree must have approved of them, because nobody stays for long inside the Tree if it doesn’t approve of them. They either depart at great speed, or they don’t leave at all and no one ever sees them again. The one thing that everyone agrees on is that the Tree is quite definitely awake and aware, in its own ancient woody way. A few deeply mystical types have claimed to be able to talk with the Tree, but only after ingesting truly heroic portions of the local mushrooms.

  The original Hawk and Fisher founded their Hero Academy with a cellar full of treasure they’d brought with them from the Forest Kingdom. Presumably stolen. There was still more than enough left to keep the Academy going, even after all these years, added to by very generous donations from grateful alumni. Presumably tribute. The original Hawk always said it was vital that the students got everything they needed to help them develop their various talents, irregardless of their previous backgrounds. The original Fisher said he only said that so he could use the word irregardless.

  The warrior students looked down on the magic students, who looked down on the alchemy students, who looked down on the political students, who looked down on everyone else. All the Hawks and Fishers encouraged healthy rivalry, whilst at the same time coming down hard on anyone who descended into bullying. Which very thought was enough to add a certain preoccupation to their step as they approached a particular sword-practice hall. They’d been hearing reports about the secondary Bladesmaster, Anton la Vern, for some time. And not the kind of reports you wanted to hear about a man entrusted with the teaching of impressionable young souls. Hawk and Fisher had listened carefully, watched even more carefully, given Anton la Vern a lot of room and as much benefit of the doubt as they reasonably could . . . because he was a Bladesmaster, after all. Supposedly unbeatable with a sword in his hand. Such people were rare, and even harder to acquire as tutors of the Hero Academy. They brought prestige to the Academy, and helped attract the very best kind of student.

  And la Vern was a good tutor—everybody said so—turning out many great young swordsmen and -women. But there comes a point when you just have to stop making excuses for someone. Because, as Hawk quite rightly pointed out, the only thing lower than a bully was a worm’s belly.

  They stopped in the open doorway of the training hall and watched silently as dozens of grimly determined students went head-to-head with steel in their hands. The air was full of the clash of blade on blade, heavy breathing and harsh grunting, and the stamp of booted feet on the wooden floor. No practice blades here, and no protective armour. Real danger, and the occasional spurt of blood, speeded up the learning process wonderfully, and helped weed out those students who weren’t really committed, or suited, to the warrior’s way. It did help that there was always a medical sorcerer at hand to heal wounds, stick severed fingers back on, and deal with everything short of mortal wounds or the more severe forms of decapitation.

  Hawk and Fisher watched from the doorway, so still and silent that no one even noticed they were there. And all too soon they saw what they were looking for. La Vern moved back and forth across the hall, watching all the fighters closely, dropping a word of commendation here, a sharp reprimand there, but always moving on, looking for something in particular . . . the one thing he really couldn’t stand. He watched two young men duel each other up and down the hall, lunging and parrying, leaping back and forth and attacking each other with dizzying speed. And then la Vern moved in and stopped the fight, and called for everyone else to stop. The hall fell suddenly still and silent. Dozens of young men and women stepped away from each other and lowered their swords, sweating hard and breathing heavily, to watch Anton la Vern shout and sneer at the better of the two swordsmen before him, mocking and humiliating him in front of everyone. Doing his best to destroy the young man’s confidence and break his spirit—because that was the one thing Anton la Vern couldn’t bear. That someone in his class might become as good as he was. La Vern had to be the best, whatever the cost. He quickly worked himself into a spiteful fury, shouting at the white-faced student before him so loudly he didn’t even hear Hawk and Fisher enter the practice hall.

  He realised something was wrong only when he looked around and found no one was listening to him anymore. No one was even looking at him. Every student in the hall was looking past him, and when he turned to find out why, his face went suddenly pale, as he saw Hawk and Fisher heading straight for him. He didn’t need to ask why; he saw the answer in their faces. Knew from the way they looked at him that he hadn’t covered his tracks as well as he’d thought he had. For a long moment he couldn’t find anything to say. He could have defended himself, could have sought to justify his behaviour . . . but he had only to look in their eyes to see there was no point. So he just drew himself up, looked them both square in the face, and silently defied them. Hawk and Fisher crashed to a halt before him, and something in the way they looked and something in the way they held themselves had the watching students decide this was a good time to start backing away. Because whatever was about to happen, they really didn’t want to be a part of it.

  “Anton,” said Hawk, “I didn’t want to believe it. I had no idea you were so . . . insecure.”

  “I had no idea you were such a small-minded, mean-spirited little prick,” said Fisher.

  “You’ll have to go, Anton,” said Hawk.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” said la Vern. His voice was flat and firm, his gaze unwavering. “I’m not going, because you can’t make me. I’m a Bladesmaster. You know what that means. Unbeatable with a sword in my hand. I’m a master of steel, while you’re just two burned-out mercenaries hiding behind the reputation of someone else’s names.”

  Hawk kicked him really hard in the groin. Anton made a low, shocked noise, and then his eyes squeezed shut. Tears streamed down his cheeks. He tried to suck in a new breath, and found he couldn’t. He dropped to his knees. One hand scrabbled numbly for the sword at his side. Fisher leaned over and rabbit-punched him with vicious force on the back of his exposed neck, and Anton la Vern crumpled unconscious to the floor.

  “Unbeatable, yes. But only with a sword actually in your hand,” said Hawk. “You really think you’re the first Bladesmaster I’ve had to deal with?” He gestured to the two nearest students. “Pick that piece of crap up and haul him out of here. Hand him over to security, and tell them to take
away his sword, strap him onto a mule facing backwards, and then send him on his way.”

  The students moved quickly forward, and gathered up the unconscious Bladesmaster. One of them looked uncertainly at Hawk.

  “What if he comes back?”

  “If he’s dumb enough to show his face here again, we’ll let the sorcery students practice on him,” said Fisher. “There’s a reason we keep that big lily pond of frogs down on the basement level.”

  Hawk and Fisher wandered on through the gleaming wooden corridors, not headed anywhere in particular, thinking their own individual thoughts. Hawk had approved la Vern’s position as tutor, and he hated to be wrong about people. Fisher was thinking about what was for dinner. She’d never been much of a one for self-recrimination. People passed them by in the corridors, nearly always with a nod and a smile. The current Hawk and Fisher were popular, respected heads of the Hero Academy, though they would both have been surprised to hear it. They liked to think of themselves as cool and distant governors.

  “How long have we been here?” Fisher said finally.

  “Longer than I ever expected,” said Hawk. “What’s the matter? You getting tired of all this?”

  “You know I’m not,” said Fisher. “I like it here—doing good work, changing the world for the better, one hero at a time.”

  “It was either this or retire and run a tavern somewhere,” said Hawk. “And that always seemed far too much like hard work to me. This . . . suits me better.”

  They paused by a large open window to watch a line of rather nervous-looking students file uncertainly out along a broad branch of the Tree. They took their time getting into position, checked that they were an arm’s length apart, and then looked glumly down at the long drop below. A gusting wind tousled their hair and plucked at their clothes with a rough hand. To a man and a woman, the students all looked like they’d much rather be somewhere else. Anywhere else. A few were quietly praying, a few were quietly whimpering, and several had their eyes squeezed firmly shut. Their tutor, the Witch in Residence, Lily Peck, walked along the branch behind them and briskly pushed them off, one by one. They plummeted swiftly out of sight, leaving only their screams behind.

  “It’s the only way to teach them to fly,” said Hawk. “Ask them to jump, and they’d still be there at dinnertime.”

  Fisher sniffed. “If we really wanted to motivate them, we should take away the safety nets.”

  • • •

  They moved on. Some time later, they paused before a very firmly closed, locked, and bolted door. Various sounds of an extreme nature drifted past the heavy wooden door, which bore the sign Exams Under Way.

  “I see the magical tantric sex classes are still very popular,” said Hawk.

  “For those who survive them, yes,” said Fisher.

  They lingered for a while outside the door. They had no business there, but still . . . Sudden raised voices from the base of the Tree travelled up the open elevator shaft behind them and caught their attention, and they reluctantly decided that they’d better check them out. They shot down the shaft on the flat wooden slab, just a little more quickly than they were comfortable with, and made their way to the entrance of the Millennium Oak, where a Famous Name had turned up, demanding entrance.

  The Tree’s security guards were blocking the newcomer’s way, politely but very firmly, with closed ranks and drawn swords; but Warren Wulfshead wasn’t the kind to be easily impressed or intimidated. He just stood there, his fists planted solidly on his hips, glaring right into the guards’ faces, loudly demanding to be allowed to enter. Demanding that he had a right to enter the Academy, because of who and what he was, and that he had every intention of tutoring all the students, teaching them everything he knew and recruiting the best of them for his own purposes.

  Everyone had heard of the Wulfshead, of course, though for many this was the first chance they’d had to see the outlaw legend in the flesh. He was tall and darkly handsome, lithely muscled, and even standing still he burned with barely suppressed nervous energy. He looked like he’d much rather be killing a whole bunch of people, and only basic politeness was holding him back. He looked down his prominent nose at everyone present, his mouth set in a flat, determined line. He had a high, bony forehead, a receding hairline, and cold, cold eyes. It was hard to believe he could have done all the heroically violent things he was supposed to have done, and still appear to be only in his early thirties. Just looking at him, you got the impression he was quite prepared to walk through and over absolutely anyone who got in his way. You could also tell that he quite clearly saw himself as a Born Leader. Such men are dangerous. Especially to those they lead.

  Warren Wulfshead, legendary bandit and brigand of Redhart, wore clothes of green and brown, for camouflage, so he could blend into the scenery and shoot his enemies in the back, from ambush. And then run away. Though that was rarely mentioned in the many widely circulating stories and songs based on his exploits. Warren Wulfshead was a professional outlaw, a renegade by choice, and if the rumours were to believed . . . he was also the author of most of the stories and songs about him.

  Hawk and Fisher had heard of him. They didn’t approve of him at all.

  They shouldered their way through the crowd that had gathered in the entrance hall, eager for a look at a living legend and maybe even an autograph, and then they eased their way through the ranks of security guards, to finally stand before the Wulfshead. Who looked Hawk and Fisher up and down, curled his lip briefly to show how unimpressed he was, and then went for the bluff and hearty approach. He gave them both a quick, manly smile, nicely calculated to demonstrate that he was officially pleased to meet the current heads of the Hero Academy but that they weren’t on his level and so shouldn’t use the opportunity to take advantage. The Wulfshead was always the hero of the story, wherever he happened to be, and no matter whom he was speaking to. But before he could say anything, Hawk got in first. Because he was never impressed by anybody.

  “Yes, we know who you are, and no, we don’t care,” he said bluntly. “You’re not welcome here.”

  “We don’t approve of you,” said Fisher.

  “Whyever not?” said the Wulfshead, honestly taken aback.

  “Because we’ve talked with people who’ve actually met you,” said Hawk.

  He took a careful, deliberate step forward, so he could plant himself directly in front of the Wulfshead and block his entrance to the Tree. The Wulfshead didn’t budge an inch, and the two men faced off. The Wulfshead made a point of playing to the eagerly watching crowd. He was famous, or perhaps more properly infamous, for leading a pack of political outlaws that liked to be called the Werewolves, in the darker and more primitive woods of Redhart. The country was ruled by King William, who was, in turn, very strictly advised by the elected Parliament. But the Wulfshead saw growing democracy as too slow a process. There was a certain amount of support for his cause, but not for his methods. Which tended to be brutal, murderous, and self-serving. You were either on the Wulfshead’s side or you were dead. The Wulfshead had never actually said who or what should replace the King, but no one would have been at all surprised if Warren’s name turned out to be at the top of the list. He was, after all, a Born Leader.

  “We’d heard you’d been doing badly,” said Hawk. “That your vicious activities had undermined your cause and turned most of Redhart’s population against you.”

  “Lies, spread by my enemies,” said the Wulfshead, still playing to the crowd.

  “Most of your followers have been killed, arrested, or just deserted,” said Fisher. “Because you treat your people worse than the King does.”

  “And because you don’t know a thing about strategy,” said Hawk. “Hiding in the deep woods, attacking from ambush and then disappearing, is all you know. Last I heard, you’d been chased right out of Redhart, with your few remaining followers. You tried to set up business in the Forest Kingdom, but since that’s mostly a democracy these days, with just a co
nstitutional monarchy, your brand of outlaw politics never stood a chance. The Forest army kicked you out before you’d even had time to write a song about being there. And now here you are; with a mere seven followers, none too impressive, I might add, demanding the right to tutor my students in your own brand of extreme politics, so you can carry them off to be battle fodder in your own private war. Like I’m going to let that happen.”

  “I need a new base, and a new army,” the Wulfshead said calmly. “And I have found them both here. You can’t stand against me. I have destiny on my side. They’re not your people anymore. They’re mine.”

  “Over my dead body,” said Hawk.

  The Wulfshead smiled happily. “That’s the idea, yes. A ship can’t have two Captains.” He looked at Fisher. “I’m here for him. The man in charge. You don’t get to interfere.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” said Fisher. “My Hawk may not be as young as he used to be, but there will never be a day when he needs my help to take out a jumped-up little turd like you.”

  The Wulfshead gestured imperiously to his followers. “Seize her!”

  Fisher stepped forward and glared right into the faces of the seven Werewolves. They backed away despite themselves, huddled together and shifted their feet uncertainly, and didn’t make a single move to go for their weapons. They didn’t know what to do with people who weren’t scared of them. Fisher let loose with a harsh bark of laughter and set herself firmly between the Werewolves and their leader. She nodded briskly to Hawk, who looked thoughtfully at the Wulfshead for a moment before drawing his axe and hefting it meaningfully. In a simple, straightforward way that showed it was something he did every day. Something he was very good at.

  The Wulfshead stepped back, looked quickly about him, and realised he’d lost the attention of the crowd. He pulled open the front of his brown and green tunic to reveal a preserved wolf’s paw hanging on a silver chain over his very hairy chest. Some people in the crowd made impressed noises, but not many. They’d all seen stranger things, studying at the Hero Academy. The Wulfshead drew his long sword, making a real production of it. He swept the blade back and forth before him, the burnished steel shining bright and sharp in the golden ambience of the entrance hall. He smiled mockingly at Hawk, who hadn’t moved an inch.