Villains by Necessity (v1.1)

by Eve Forward

  The two looked at her curiously. She picked up an empty wooden bowl and demonstrated. “Imagine that this bowl represents the existence of this world. Good and Evil, as your mage supposed, act as forces on the world.” She rested the fingertips of a hand on the rim of each side of the bowl and wobbled it in gentle circles on the tabletop. “The forces are in conflict and harmony at once. You may not understand this, nor does the mage. But we of nature do. For birth, there must be death. For night, there must be dawn. For one man to be good, another must be evil. For someone to win, another must lose. This is the cycle of nature, the seasons... This is the way of life, the way of balance, and this is why we do not follow your philosophy of choosing the extremes of Light and Darkness as the attitude that guides our path of life. We are standing in balance, in neutrality, and we strive to keep the world this way. The magic and power of nature take their strength from the mingling and dilution of the forces of life and death. Good and Evil, as they are poured into this world from the dimensions of magic and react to each other.

  “That is why we fought on both sides, in struggle to maintain the balance. If darkness prevails ...” she pushed down on one side of the wobbling bowl. It tilted up, its wobbling halted. “... the world is unbalanced. Death outruns life, night is forever, even the creatures of evil finally slip into death in their own darkness.” She righted the bowl, set it wobbling again. “This did not happen. The Victory saved us from the evil... but something just as bad has happened. Light conquered, and drove the darkness away, far, too far away.” Her fingers pushed slowly harder down on the other side of the bowl with each turn of her fingers. Its wobbling slowed, grew unsteady, began tilting under the gradual pressure. “This is what happens now. We are unbalanced. Nature is affected; the nights grow shorter, and the stars are brighter at night. The animals reproduce more, and the weak and ill do not die as they should, to make room for the new life. The vegetation runs riot. The people are slowing, drifting into ennui of constant prosperity. Every day, the balance is upset further, as more of the creatures of darkness die in the light, and people such as you vanish. You are not servants of darkness, but you represent it, wittingly or not. Your existence is a facet of darkness ... but though the people curse you, and your darkness makes you alone, you are as necessary to the survival of the world as predators are to an environment. If everyone and everything were evil, the world would be plunged into eternal darkness. If everyone and everything were good, the world would be sublimated in a dazzling brilliance.”

  “I wouldn’t want to be sublimated,” commented Sam.

  He still felt weak, dizzy. Arcie looked up at Kaylana with a quizzical expression.

  “What if everyone were neutral, like ye, then?” he asked.

  Kaylana looked at him, and pressed her fingertips into the center of the bottom of the bowl. It stilled. “Stasis. Everything would slow to a stop. Neither light nor day would come, so the world would be in perpetual twilight. The world would not move, nothing would grow, no wind would blow, no animals would run, no water would flow. Nothing would die, nothing would be born. Nothing would change. That is why good and evil are necessary. It is the conflict that allows change that allows existence to continue.”

  “So what’s yer point of all this, then?” inquired Arcie.

  “The point is, the world is in danger of being, as I said, sublimated. The balance is distorted, the world is slipping over. Soon, it will pass the point of no return, and there will be no way we can bring the scales back to level. It will be the end, but for the final flash of light.”

  I

  “But don’t the mages and other wise men know this? If the world’s going to be destroyed, surely they wouldn’t want that to happen?” Sam looked startled. He wasn’t sure quite why, but he believed this so-called Druid. He himself had felt that the increasing goodness wasn’t right, somehow ... like icing on a cake that was too sweet, so that you couldn’t eat it...

  Kaylana put the bowl away wearily. “If they know, they do not believe. They cannot. They are Good, you see. They cannot tolerate evil. It goes against what they believe. Even if you could convince them that evil, that monsters, Nathauan, dark dragons and trolls and thieves and assassins were necessary for the existence of the world, they could not allow such creatures to exist and move in their evil ways. They have to fight them; it is what makes them good, and in the past that conflict was the motion that drove, the world ... as long as neither side won. They do not realize that by destroying their opposites, they undercut their own existence.” She looked at them. “I feel you are among the last of those who once were the necessary dark forces of counterbalance. You are indeed evil ...” Arcie started to protest, but Sam hushed him. Kaylana looked at him sternly. “Yes, thief. But understand it is not an insult. You know that what you do is wrong, but you do it anyway, for your own reasons, and simply because, though you do not realize it, somebody must.”

  Sam realized what she was saying, though his head was still feeling fuzzy. A chill shook him briefly.

  “In a game of chess, someone has to take the black pieces.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So how do we keep from sublimating?” asked Arcie.

  “I know not, Barigan. The world is in danger that it does not realize. It thinks it has won and need never worry again. It is a strange thing, when good is so powerful that it is evil that must save the world. Sometimes the world was too evil, and then needed purifying. And now, the world is too pure ... it needs corrupting.”

  “How are ye supposed to go about that?” wondered Arcie.

  “We, Barigan. I will need your help, you two villains. I have not been out into the Six Lands in many years, and their ways are strange.”

  “Why should we help you?” asked Sam. Kaylana shrugged.

  “It is your choice. Come with me, and help save your world and travel under my powers of concealment. Or, if you prefer, wander out and face the search parties looking for you ... assaulting a Hero is a very bad move, assassin.”

  There was a pause. Then the two villains nodded.

  “Aye, well enough... where do we start, then?” sighed Arcie.

  “We start by assessing the situation. We will seek the wisdom of the Gypsies. They travel far, and will know of the situation in other kingdoms.”

  Gypsies, Sam thought to himself. He nodded sleepily.

  Something on the floor by his log caught his attention. A puddle. Hmph. Well, if the wench was going to make him wash then she’d just have to put up with him dripping onto her floor. Nice red puddles ...

  “Sam?” said Arcie, as the assassin slid slowly off onto the floor. Kaylana stood up in consternation. Blood was slowly welling out of his tattered tunic from the sword wound Oarf had given him.

  “He bleeds on my floor. Why did you not tell me he was wounded?”

  Arcie shrugged. “You didn’t ask.”

  Sam awoke to a sea of yellow light, the sweet smell of Barigan tobacco, and a rumbling noise. A heavy weight was on his legs. He opened his eyes to see Kaylana kneeling near him with a swatch of cloth that looked to be covered with crushed plants in an acrid-smelling green paste.

  The wildcat lay across his legs, purring and watching him with slitted green eyes. Kaylana skillfully removed a similar swatch from his side and replaced it with the new one.

  Raising his head to look, Sam noticed the wound was almost healed. His hands felt better too. He looked at them, folded on his chest. They were all bound up in cloth and weeds, and one of his fingers was immobilized in a wooden splint.

  “You’re a healer?” he asked the woman in surprise, as she removed the bandages and he flexed his hands and fingers.

  “Not as you know it,” she replied, “but I do have healing powers.” Sam turned his head and saw Arcie, sitting on an upturned bucket and smoking his small curved pipe. The Barigan grinned at him.

  “Ye’re getting a lot of sleep these days, blondie,” Arcie greeted him.

  “It’s morning alrea
dy ... seven or so. We’ve got to be getting on.” Sam tried to sit up. Kaylana gave him a light shove in the chest and he fell back with a grunt.

  “My magic weakens as the balance is destroyed, but fortunately most of the forest herbs retain their potency, and positive healing magic is easy in this Light-filled world. Still, you have lost some blood and needed the sleep.”

  “We must be moving, Sam. Kaylana here says as the town guards be coming closer. She’s got all yon birds and things working as spies for her ...”

  “Is Mizzamir among those approaching?” inquired Sam, sitting up again, this time more carefully. Kaylana lashed a final binding around his side and let him regain a semi-upright position. He noticed she was wearing armor of some sort, made out of some kind of stiff woven cord, over a shirt and pants. The dun-colored robe hung loose over her clothing and armor.

  “The Hero? No,” answered Kaylana, getting up and starting to pack herbs, cloth, and bundles of food into woven canvas sacks. Sam nodded wearily. Somehow he’d figured that. Mizzamir was an archmage, after all ... he’d come for Sam in his own time. And then Sam would do his best to kill him; for pride, for self-defense, for revenge ... for that inexplicable perversity of what he could assume now was his dark nature. And for a thousand gold tellins, too, of course.

  “We have collected your horses and packed them with supplies for the journey. We awaited only your return to consciousness.” Kaylana took down a wooden shield from an alcove in the wall and slung it over her back.

  “Come. We must leave.” She took her staff from where she had leaned it briefly against the wall and walked out the door. Arcie trotted after her, stuffing a few rolls from a shelf into his pocket, and Sam slowly rose and followed.

  Outside, Kaylana made a trilling noise and clicked her tongue a few times. On silent padding feet, the wildcat trotted out and vanished into the woods, followed by a few birds, and, a short while later, a young weasel and a family of dormice. Kaylana nodded and pushed the thorn bush back over the entry. Then she touched her staff to its roots, closed her eyes in concentration, and murmured softly under her breath for a moment, using her ancient magic to persuade, hasten, encourage ...

  At first, nothing happened. Then, suddenly, the thorn bush writhed, its branches curling and snaking as they lengthened, the dirt bubbling as the rapidly spreading bush thrust thick roots into the soil. Sam and Arcie stepped back from the cracking plant, and Kaylana gave it a look of satisfaction and moved away. Within minutes the whole of the huge rock that was Kaylana’s home was covered three feet thick in a snarl of thorns and leaves. A gnarled trunk and roots blocked the entry as effectively as an iron portcullis.

  Sam shook his head and turned to pat his horse. It sniffed at him and tried to eat his hair. Standing with the horses, Sam noted, was a large stag, his antlers still velvety. As he looked at it, Kaylana went up to it and patted its neck lightly, and then gracefully vaulted onto its broad back as it stood calmly. It wore no saddle or bridle, but Kaylana looked like she knew what she was doing with it..

  Wondering what he was getting into, riding out to save the world with a half-pint thief and a strange Druid who rode a deer, he heaved himself up into the saddle. The horse tossed its head, but he steadied it and settled back to watch the comical process ofarcie mounting his pony.

  As a rule, Barigans distrusted any animals much larger than the diminutive shaggy ponies native to their chilled and rocky land. This pony was oftroisian-Einian stock, and just barely qualified for the title of “pony.” In Sam’s opinion, Arcie would have fitted better on a large sheep (or, for the assassin’s own preference, the end of a spear), but the Barigan, irrepressible as always, took the long reins in his teeth and grabbed hold of the dangling stirrup.

  With an agility surprising in a man of his build and stature, he climbed hand over hand up the stirrup leather.

  As soon as he could, he swung around and planted his feet carefully on the pony’s side, and used the additional leverage to struggle up to the seat of the saddle. The pony bore this ridiculous treatment with a lowered head and laid back ears. Arcie knew what he was doing when he’d chosen this horse; he’d seen it around town, taking small clusters of the children of the worthies around on its back. Compared to their trick-riding and wild yells, the Barigan’s clumsy scramble was commonplace. Arcie heaved himself into the seat and sat panting. Sam applauded him silently, and then added, in a gentle yet venomous voice, “By the way, old chum, I’d like my things, if you don’t mind.”

  “Things?” Arcie was pure innocence.

  “Come on, you cheating thief! Nobody falls asleep in your presence who doesn’t wake up about ten pounds lighter. You and I both know I haven’t had a cent on me since those guards finished searching me and shackling me. But you and I also know that I’m nowhere near as efficient without a few daggers and knives: seven to be precise. Also my blowgun, forty needles for same, two rolls of wire, nine vials of various interesting chemical substances, my shortsword, my lockpicks, my tiger claws, my throwing blades, my other articles of the trade, and my small folding grappling hook with the silk rope. Hand them over, Arcie. You’re not going to get out of our contract that easy.”

  With a sigh, the Barigan complied, pulling the items one by one from various pouches and pockets. Sam and Kaylana looked increasingly interested as various items seemingly too large or long for the confines of the pockets emerged. Sam took the items and slipped them into their sheaths concealed about his person, his confidence slowly returning. True, he knew eighty-four different ways of killing someone without a single tool, but it did feel nice to be back in uniform again. He glanced at the last pouch Arcie was tucking back into his belt sulkily.

  “By the dead gods, Arcie ... how much of that chub of yours is Barigan and how much is ill-gotten loot?”

  Arcie glanced at the tall assassin. “None of your damn business, blondie.”

  Sam inspected him a long moment. Then with a smile and a shake of his head, said, “True ... my business is to take the most precious of possessions, and you just take everything else.” Arcie grinned at him, and Kaylana’s stag started forward, picking its way carefully through the forest. The assassin and thief followed on their mounts, and birds alighted in the still-twitching thornbush to watch them go. They scattered a moment later, as a glossy black raven swooped low overhead and glided on ebony wings down the path.

  In a crystal tower, Mizzamir drummed his long fingers pensively on the edge of the font. Within the swirling silver waters, three tiny figures were visible: one on a horse, one on a large deer, and one on a pony. They emerged from a blurred green forest of trees and headed across the heath. Southeast. Mizzamir’s fingertips touched the silvery runes decorating the rim of the white marble font in sequence. The picture increased, showing the three riders in silent progression, a tattered black-clad man, a scruffy, shorter man, and a young woman with red hair. To Mizzamir’s magical sight, the faint greenish-white wisps of nature energy were dimly visible about her and the staff she carried. He raised an eyebrow in mild surprise as the image swiftly grew fuzzy and blurred, as the nature magic wisps obscured his scrying spell.

  “A Druid. Hmm. That may complicate things a bit.”

  Mizzamir sighed and scattered the image with a flick of his fingers.

  “Was that her, with the red hair?” asked Fenwick, who had been looking over the mage’s shoulder. He was a sharp-jawed young man, skilled at the hunt and the duties of heroes, with handsome features and brave eyes, and a prince in his own right. His great-grandfather had been one of the Heroes, the Forest Lord Fen-Alaran, and had ruled Trois, the southernmost of the Six Lands, graciously until his peaceful death before Fenwick was born.

  Fenwick was a man known for his defeat of the Trollish Legions at Halfast and the annihilation of the evil Nathauans.

  Mizzamir smiled benevolently at the young champion of good. Just like his great-grandfather, the mage thought.

  “Yes, that was her. It could cause some problems
. I had thought the Druids and their foolish ideas gone, but apparently one remains.” He began to pace the crystalline floor of his conjuring room, his robes billowing in the shafts of sunlight. The light poured in through the stained-glass windows and flashed off the polished and faceted crystal of his tower room, blindingly bright, even for midmorning.

  “She is very beautiful,” commented Fenwick. “I had not thought of Druids as beautiful young women.” He rubbed his small, neat beard thoughtfully.

  “Caution, lad. She’s older than she looks, if I’m any judge,” said Mizzamir gently, his eyes troubled. “A problem ... I did not wish for bloodshed. But if they are allied with a Druid, she will not surrender, no more than her kinsmen did. We must move cautiously now. Her powers protect the rogues, so that I cannot hear their thoughts, nor see their motives, their plans.”

  “Cannot you simply appear magically where they are and subdue them with your mighty magic?” inquired Fenwick.

  “Yes, I could,” answered the wizard thoughtfully.

  “But it stirs my curiosity, to wonder where the Druid leads them, to discover what plans they may have, what they intend to do. I am concerned, lest they may know of something that may threaten the rule of peace and goodness for which we have worked so hard. Perhaps they journey to meet with other of their ilk, perhaps they seek a lost artifact that might give them power to threaten us.”

  He looked at the prince from under his arched silver eyebrows.

  Fenwick felt something was expected of him.

  “And you feel that the potential reward of whatever it is they seek is greater than the small victory of capturing the villains and the Druid. Very good, sir!” Fenwick said, admiringly. Mizzamir smiled and looked out the window.

  “The forces of evil are scattered, Fenwick. They drift, lost in a sea of light, dying, confused. But like calls to like, Fenwick. These two and their Druid will be like a lodestone dragged through sand in which are hidden iron filings. If we wait, sooner or later they will pick up others of their ilk, and thus we may save those as well or, failing that, eliminate the threat they pose to Light.”