Krull

by Alan Dean Foster

  Ergo perked up, the soreness that attended his fundament temporarily forgotten. "You have money, then?"

  "Enough to provide you with a horse, anyway." That told Ergo little, which was precisely what Colwyn wanted him to know.

  Ergo peered around his companion's side, raised his voice. "You are not a great chooser of roads, old man."

  "Our road has been chosen for us," Ynyr replied importantly.

  "I was referring to that which passes beneath our horses' hooves, not that which conveys our spirits."

  "As you prefer," said Ynyr. "To place your question on a less exhalted plain, this particular road avoids the most dangerous bogs and marshlands while saving us half a day of travel. No highways lead to our current destination. I should think that, given your present seat, you would be particularly appreciative of any time saved."

  Ergo's muttered reply was somewhat less than grateful.

  The canyon narrowed further and Colwyn's unease intensified as it did so.

  "Ynyr, shouldn't we be out of these rocks by now? It seems we've been riding through them for ages."

  "I'm sorry, my boy, but this is the only way to avoid the marshlands. Rest easy. We'll emerge into more open country soon enough."

  They rode on. With a sensitive portion of his anatomy continuing to shout its protests, Ergo finally descended to give his feet some exercise, walking alongside Colwyn's horse. Through sleepy eyes quickly opened he thought he saw a half-solid shape behind the rocks. A man could see anything he wanted to in such a place. Here the boulders became a sculpted horse, there a ship far out at sea, there a man's contorted face, there another . . . and another.

  He stared wide-eyed at the jumble of rocks on either side of the path they trod. Another face appeared briefly alongside the last. It wasn't like stone to repeat its illusions so often or so faithfully. He moved close to the horse and his voice became an anxious whisper.

  "Robbers! On both sides, Colwyn."

  "I've been watching them." Colwyn's reply was calm. "They've been paralleling us for several minutes now, choosing their spot. Restrain yourself. They're only men. We don't know for sure that they're robbers. You leap to conclusions."

  "I would gladly leap there if I thought it a safer place. Faces as ugly as those I've seen could only belong to robbers. What do you think such men are about, hiding themselves in this kind of country? Picking berries?" Aware of the fear in his voice he hastened to cover it with bravado.

  "Well, not to worry. I'll turn them all into pigs. Now, where did I put that porcine formulation?" He started rummaging through his slips of paper.

  Two men rose from opposite sides of the trail, flung their massive axes toward him simultaneously. Each ax blade locked itself over his neck, their weight pinning the unfortunate Ergo to the ground.

  "That does it!" he yelled from where he lay, struggling with the pinioning blades. He was more angry now than frightened. "You'll oink and squeal for the rest of your lives!"

  Unfortunately, the only pig that appeared near the trail found itself neatly trapped beneath the interlocking ax handles. It oinked and squealed with considerable vigor.

  Contrary to Ergo's prejudicial observation, the man who stepped clear of the rocks to confront Colwyn was not especially ugly, but it was plain for anyone to see that he hadn't lived an easy life at court, either. There were scars on his face that had not been put there by farming implements, and his expression was hard and cold. Muscles rippled beneath his shirt sleeves like snakes dreaming under leather.

  "You are surrounded by a hundred men," he informed Colwyn. "Throw down your weapons and surrender your money."

  Colwyn dismounted to study his challenger. "A hundred is not enough."

  That brought forth an amused smile. "Well, well, what have we here? A fighter?" He looked curiously at Colwyn, then at Ynyr. "A welcome change from the usual quavering traveler. A few moments diversion, they say, is refreshing for the soul."

  "I would agree with you, were I not in a hurry. If we are to talk of souls, stranger, have a care for your own, lest it find itself liberated sooner than you think. And if it's pleasurable diversion you intend, you're short about ninety men."

  The man laughed good-humoredly. "Not only a fighter, but a counter too!"

  A second man stepped out of the fog. His expression was sour, his attitude one of irritated boredom. He was stocky and rotund, but Colwyn could see the muscle beneath the fat. His hand held a peculiar and lethal-looking bolo.

  "What is this small talk? Idle chatter is for idle men. Kill them and be done with it, Torquil."

  "Softly go, Rhun." The man named Torquil was studying the nonchalant horseman cautiously. "I don't kill without reason."

  "Nor do I," Colwyn assured him, eyeing the one called Rhun with unconcealed distaste. "The both of you can be thankful for that."

  Rhun took a step forward, brandishing the bolo. It was designed not for bringing down fleeing fowl, but for killing.

  "Interesting toy you have there, friend. Take another step toward me and you'd best be certain of its use."

  The heavyset man held his ground and continued to eye Colwyn threateningly. Strong and skillful, Colwyn decided, but tending to the impetuous. The one to concentrate on was the apparent leader, Torquil.

  Then he noticed something else: Torquil wore iron manacles on his wrists. In the fog it had been difficult to tell if they were wrist shields, decorative bracelets, or something else. Now he could see that the combative Rhun wore identical manacles. Several links of heavy chain dangled from one.

  "You are escaped prisoners." It was not a question.

  Nor did Torquil try to deny it. He grinned and gestured into the fog where the rest of his band waited. "Say rather, misunderstood citizens. Society has frowned on our actions, sir. But in essence you are correct. We are that, each and every man of us. Thieves, bandits, tax avoiders, brawlers, stealers of favors from men and women both. Vagabonds forced to eke out a living any way we can."

  "Desperate men, I should say. That's quite a litany of offenses, though much was evident from first sight of you."

  "Beauty is not necessary to our profession. Aye, we're as desperate as you'll ever set eyes upon, traveler . . . which is one reason we are not to be trifled with. If you will put your hand away from that fine sword of yours, it will not be necessary for us to demonstrate to you just how desperate we can be.

  "As for our appearance, I make no apologies. The life of a fugitive is constrained by circumstance, which smells pestiferously in our case. No, the only thing you can trust in is our desperation."

  "Good." Colwyn moved his sword slightly, noted the slight twitch of Torquil's right hand. Fast, he thought. Fast but controlled. "Those are the kind of men I need."

  "You need?" Torquil tried to laugh again, but he was a little confused and his heart wasn't in it. This was not the usual sort of confrontation he and his followers were accustomed to. Trembling in fear was normal. A quick hand-over of any valuables without bloodshed, that was typical. On rare occasions some fool resisted, and every such confrontation had ended in the same way.

  But this stranger's casual demeanor was unsettling. It implied confidence and knowledge. It bothered Torquil. There was no sign they were preparing to flee, either.

  And then there was this odd talk about followers. Torquil continued to study his confident young opponent. He certainly didn't have the look of a thief. If he was, he displayed strange taste in henchmen: one little fool full of braggadocio and one quiet old man. Odd too the way the old man seemed supremely indifferent to the whole discussion, as though the weather and the terrain ahead were more important than whatever Torquil and his band might try.

  It was all very much out of the ordinary, and Torquil hadn't kept his neck intact this long by rushing blindly into inexplicable situations. His sword hand itched. He had to make a decision soon. Back in the woods Bardolph and Kegan must be fingering the triggers of their crossbows nervously, wondering at the delay. Something kep
t him from giving the attack signal.

  In the presence of indecision, he chose to stall. He gestured toward the trees. "These men follow no man but me, and I follow no man at all. There are no men left in this world worth following. So I am sorry to have to decline your offer, stranger, but you'll have to seek help elsewhere. After you've handed over your money, that is."

  "I do not blame you for what you say. Truly there are few men worth following. But would you not follow a king?"

  Torquil squinted at the rider. Nearby Sweyn was muttering, "I grow tired of this discourse, Torquil. Let's finish them before some other garrulous fools come along and increase our risk."

  "Hold your guts." He kept his eyes on Colwyn. "There are plenty of lunatics wandering the countryside claiming to be kings. We live in times that seem to encourage such idiocy. Such folk prey on the fears of the credulous. I am not credulous. Neither are my men."

  "You have not answered my question: would you not follow a king?"

  "Perhaps, though I've had nothing from kings but ill."

  Colwyn smiled. "A common complaint, often justified. A king is often too distanced from his people. Blame him not for the occasional excesses of minor bureaucrats. Answer me, man. Would you follow a king to the Black Fortress?"

  At that Torquil relaxed, smiled at Sweyn. "See? I told you. You worry too much. We've nothing to fear from these three." He turned back to Colwyn. "I confess you had me going for a while there, stranger, with your facile chatter of kings and followers. You play neat with words, but now I know that you're a lunatic. The Black Fortress!" He and Sweyn silently shared the grim joke.

  "I wouldn't follow my own father to the Black Fortress, stranger. Not that he'd be fool enough to go there. Even if it could be reached, there's nothing to be found there save death and destruction, and those I can find in more manageable quantities right here. D'you think I'm as mad as you, that I'd flee civil war in order to meet a worse death than any captain of guards could mete out?"

  "Is it mad," Colwyn asked softly, "to want to defend your world?"

  "World? What is this talk of a 'world'? Once I had a village to call home. A warlord burned it to the ground. Now I have no home, and certainly no 'world.' "

  "All Krull suffers at the hands of the Slayers."

  "All Krull suffers at the hand of winter," Rhun snapped mockingly, "but we don't try to fight the seasons. We'd fare as well if we went against the Slayers."

  "It's true the Slayers are different from ordinary warriors, but they are mortal. They can be slain."

  "So what?" Torquil challenged him. "Kill a Slayer and ten more appear to avenge him."

  "All the Slayers come from the lair of the Beast, which is the Black Fortress. Defeat the Beast and you defeat all the Slayers."

  "You talk more foolishness."

  "Is it foolish to fight for your homes and families? Is it foolish to fight for your children's sake? If that's not worth fighting for, what is? If these invaders conquer, you won't even keep the independence of escaped prisoners, for all men will become prisoners."

  "Noble sentiments," said a new voice as its owner showed himself, "except that we fight for profit. Gold—that's worth fighting for." Murmurs of assent sounded from the rocks. Not many, Colwyn thought. Certainly far fewer than a hundred. Perhaps no more than a dozen.

  "Where is the profit in your fight?" the man asked.

  "The profit is freedom," Colwyn told him, "and fame."

  "Freedom we have," Torquil replied, "and fame is an empty purse. Count it and go broke, eat it and go hungry, seek it and go mad. Fame is what fools yearn for and wise men shun."

  Ynyr turned in his saddle and spoke for the first time. To those who had never heard the old man speak, there was a peculiarly arresting quality to his soft, cutting tone. Torquil and his followers listened in spite of themselves.

  "Fame is what you leave to your children."

  Torquil gaped at him, tried to see through the white-haired figure straddling the other horse. "You know nothing of me. How did you know I have children?"

  "I know many things."

  "Save us," Rhun grumbled tiredly. "Not another wise man. They afflict the earth these days as badly as would-be kings."

  "I know of your children," Ynyr explained, "because of the way your eyes move when you speak of homes. I know of your children because of the way you stand and the way your lips and tongue curl round certain words and phrases. I know of them because of the inflection in your voice and the distant mistiness in your eyes when you say the word.

  "I tell you that there is no future for them in a world controlled and ravaged by the Beast and his creatures. There is no safety for them, nowhere to hide, no future for them to look forward to. You say you have freedom? That is foolish talk indeed. You are slaves already, just as we are, for all that you may choose to ignore the chains that bind you. Time now for men of bravery to act. Time now to break those chains so that children may mature in ignorance of them."

  "If the Slayers conquer all Krull," Colwyn added, seeing how Ynyr's words had shaken the bandit chief, "your children will be enslaved forever."

  "Words." Torquil wrestled with an inner demon. "You twist words like a solicitor. How much is truth and how much built on this accursed fog, I cannot tell."

  "What are we to do, Torquil?" asked an impatient, uncertain voice from behind a dead oak.

  "Aye, the old man makes sense," said another.

  "Shut up, you idiots, before the one who carries his sword as carefully as a swaddling babe learns each of your positions!" The woods went quiet.

  But one of Torquil's band didn't wait for his chiefs decision. The slim youth who stepped forward looked out of place alongside such experienced ruffians as Torquil and Sweyn. You had to look deeply into his eyes to see the pain and torment of an unhappy life, of events that had driven him into such company. Torquil frowned but said nothing.

  "My name is Oswyn," the youth declared. "I am no chief and I have no children, but I do have a mind of my own." He glanced across at Torquil. "The old man speaks truth. I do think he uses his tongue not to twist words but to impart them. I have been a slave too long already." He looked up at Colwyn and lowered his voice.

  "I will go with you. I have seen what the Slayers do to helpless villages and people. I would rather die fighting them with a sword in my hand."

  "Thank you," said Colwyn gratefully. He looked off into the woods as he fingered his father's medallion, his eyes searching trees and rocks. "I need men to follow me. Men who are not afraid of Slayers or their own feelings. This boy is more man than any of you who hide behind selfish desires and trees. He shames you all."

  The key he removed from the obverse of the medallion was small but solid and very complex in design. He was taking a chance, he knew, in showing it to the desperate men who confronted him, but it seemed like a worthwhile risk. If they fought and he died here, they would likely discover it anyway. Neighboring kingdoms cooperated in such matters and this bog was not far from Turold. It seemed reasonable to assume that the key would work.

  "Oswyn, give me your wrists." Uncertain but unafraid, the youth moved close. Colwyn slipped the key into the lock on the boy's right manacle and twisted. For a second nothing happened, but a little determined jiggling was rewarded by a gratifyingly loud snap. The manacle was rusty and full of grime. He repeated the action with the left band.

  Oswyn backed away, rubbing his freed wrists and looking repeatedly from them to his benefactor. Colwyn sat back on his horse and tried to present a properly regal appearance. He was not very good at it and he kept one hand on the hilt of his sword.

  The youth hesitated, still watching Colwyn, then bent and picked up the pair of opened manacles. He turned and wordlessly heaved them as far into the fog as he could. A distant splash told where they fell. When he turned back to Colwyn again, he was smiling.

  Torquil had watched closely. Now he frowned thoughtfully up at Colwyn from beneath heavy brows, still not quite willing to c
ountenance what his own eyes had just seen.

  V

  After a long moment he finally murmured carefully, "Only a king or a lord marshal would have keys to manacles like these, and you don't look much like a lord marshal. You're giving it a good try up on that fine horse, but somehow it doesn't suit you."

  Colwyn relaxed in the saddle and grinned. "No, I guess it doesn't. You're right, fellow. I'm no lord marshal."

  Torquil rubbed at his whiskers. "Matter of fact, what you do look like is about the right age to be the son of a certain king."

  "Anything's possible," Colwyn admitted.

  "King Turold's son, to be more precise."

  "The exact age, in fact."

  Torquil sighed and shook his head ruefully. "Ah, Torquil," he mumbled to himself, "it must be that you are growing old. Your brain is softening."

  "But not your sword arm or your wits, I'd wager," Colwyn replied.

  "I've no love for the kingdom of Turold. Its jails are neither better nor worse than those of any other country," the bandit growled. "Yet I must admit to having spent good times in its towns."

  "There will be no more good times in any towns because there will be no towns nor even kingdoms in a few years unless we do away with the Slayers and their master," Colwyn declared firmly.

  "Aye, so you say. So many claim. I am not certain I believe that yet, but I believe the rest. King Turold's son is named Colwyn."

  "That is my name."

  "And you would have us in your service? We hardly have the look of a royal guard." Guffaws came from his companions.

  "It is not looks I need," Colwyn told him somberly. "Join me and help me, and you will all have a full pardon and whatever else it is in my power to grant." He reached down with the key. To his surprise, Torquil waved him off.

  "Nay. If we succeed, unlock them. Otherwise, I will die with them." He smiled. "These cursed wristlets have already turned more than one sword stroke. Unlike young Oswyn there, I've developed a certain affection for them." He jangled the broken chains, then reached up and accepted the key to pass it to the man standing on his right. "Kegan here feels differently than I do, however."