“I never went home. In Bowescroft I found my name on the wanted lists, spent three weeks in hiding, and then found my way out of the city as a guard on a trade caravan. We went north to Havnor, where I met Mithos. He gave me a new identity and a new life.”
I thought for a moment. The horse hooves echoed vaguely at the back of my mind as I went through it all, scene by scene and line by line.
“Good story,” I said. “Lots of moody detail and sentiment. I like it.”
“It’s not just a story,” he said somewhat bitterly. “It’s my life.”
“There’s no such thing as ‘just’ a story,” I said. “They might be the most important things we have.”
“When they are true,” he said.
“They are usually true,” I said. “In a way.”
He frowned at me, so I shrugged.
“And now you are a swordsman,” I said. If he thought I was questioning his remorse, he ignored it.
“I have learnt how to use my sword and, more importantly, when and for what reasons. I am no random killer, Mr. Hawthorne.”
“But if someone comes at you with a sword?” I pushed.
He glanced at me and replied with the sigh of one reluctant to speak at all. “If a man, unprovoked, attacks me or wears the uniform of a sworn enemy, I will fight him. I have killed people in this line of work, but always with what I believed to be just cause. I am no mercenary, Will. I have not forgotten that young fool in the tavern all those years ago. Sometimes we act rashly or for the wrong reasons, but in these lands, at this time, the sword is the sole equalizer and, for now, I will continue to wield it.”
“And when life becomes complex,” I said, “people will always wish for a time like this, when skill with a weapon meant you could justly take a stand for what you thought was right and win. Another fiction, of course, a story we rehearse over and over in the hope it will come true.”
“There’s a big difference between fact and fiction,” he said.
“Not in my book,” I said. “And judging from the way you charge about like you’re in a fairy tale, not in yours either.”
He didn’t reply, and I don’t even know if he heard. That’s another drawback with stories. People don’t listen, or they don’t listen well.
“And the sword you carry now,” I added dryly, “has a magic stone in the pommel.”
“Yes.”
“I see,” I said. “Just so long as we are rigorously maintaining this distinction between fact and fiction.”
Orgos exhaled and said nothing. Indeed, there seemed to be nothing more to say. The image of a younger Orgos in a tavern turned over in my mind with the wheels of the cart, and I found myself wondering if I too would soon kill someone, and spend the rest of my life reliving the moment.
SCENE XXII Opening Moves
We arrived back at the keep in time to hear Mithos report what he’d heard from the count.
“He has given us a tip on where we might start looking for the raiders once we have seen the coal to safety,” he said, with a hard smile. “Near Ugokan just south of the Verneytha border is a complex of catacombs constructed over two hundred years ago. Apparently a few months back some children from a nearby village were playing there and never came out. A party of the villagers went in after them and was never seen again.”
“Why did he not tell us this during the meeting?” said Renthrette.
“Not sure. I don’t think he completely trusts the governor of Verneytha or the duke of Greycoast, but if he had any specific reason, he didn’t say.”
Orgos produced samples of what we had bought. Lisha looked over the glass vials and thanked him significantly. He held her gaze for a moment and then looked at the floor as Renthrette said, “You were right about the quality of the horses here. The major traders are grouped just north of the river, only a few hundred yards from here. We went to four different stables. The biggest had hundreds of fine horses but their prices were ridiculous. The other places were more reasonable. We got mounts for everyone, including a warhorse called Tarsha.”
Her eyes lit up as she went on. “The war horses were a little expensive, so we only got the one. We will have to share him. He is fully battle-trained and is in perfect condition. He is magnificent.”
“How much?” interrupted Lisha.
“His coat is a glossy black that-”
“How much?” I jumped in.
“Six hundred and fifty silvers,” she said quickly.
“Bloody hellfire!” I exclaimed. “That’s over half the reward money!”
“That is a lot,” said Lisha with a long sigh. Mithos lowered his head.
“He’s a very good horse,” said Garnet reassuringly.
“Does it talk?” I demanded. “Is it gold-plated? I mean, how good can a horse be? I thought you two were the meticulous and reasonable ones! Why does the smell of a horse turn you into squealing adolescents? Six hundred and fifty silvers! Hell’s teeth, I could live for a year on that. I did! Two years!”
“He’s a warhorse,” Renthrette insisted. “Warhorses are expensive.”
“Usually not that expensive,” said Lisha. “I hope it is as good as you say. It’s a good thing the governor of Verneytha gave us that extra two hundred silvers. If the horse doesn’t prove its worth, we’ll sell it. I’m sure you checked it over carefully. But no more big purchases without consulting me first, all right?”
They demurred silently, with secret grins of joy wrinkling the corners of their thin pink lips. Lisha smiled despite herself, as if she was indulging children. Perhaps she was.
We slipped away at first light, our wheels and horses clattering across the cobbled courtyard and out through the gate of the perimeter wall as the kitchens were coming to life. In the cold, pinkish light Adsine looked peaceful and content as it sprawled by the banks of the Wards-fall. We breakfasted on bread and fruit in the saddle and said little to each other, waking privately.
We had lost sight of Adsine’s hilltop castle to the slow, rolling hills of the Proxintar Downs by lunchtime. We paused and I stole a look at the stallion that Mithos now rode. It was everything and more that Renthrette had suggested, and it was only by repeating the price over and over to myself that I managed to hang on to some of my former outrage.
“Do you want to ride Tarsha for a while?” said Mithos to me suddenly. I looked at the massive creature, its muscles rippling under its black, silky coat as it tossed its mane and flared its nostrils.
“You must be bloody joking,” I said.
I rode until sunset on a bay mare, which walked calmly and easily so that I only fell off once before we camped for the night. The country had been easy-coarse fields and scattered copses-and we were on schedule. An hour or so ago we had crossed the Greycoast border, but there was no obvious change in the land as yet. North of our little camp, the edge of the Iruni Wood loomed black, and a little to the east the darkening sky was brushed with orange. I nestled close to the fire and got out one of my books from the Hide in Stavis.
It was an odd little volume which purported to be a history of the region once called Vahlia that now housed the lands of Shale, Greycoast, and Verneytha. The book itself was at least fifty years old and its pages were cracked and flaking at the edges, but the events in it were much older, many of them rooted at least as much in legend as they were in actual history. I had been reading without much enthusiasm since we left Stavis, but the book had taken an odd turn and I was suddenly fascinated.
As I said, the three lands had once been a single country divided into dozens of little principalities, each claimed by a clan or family. These clans devoted pretty much all their energies into beating each other up at every available opportunity. Usually these minifeuds had something to do with bits of scraggy grazing land that everyone treated like they were gold dust, and from time to time, certain families would get powerful enough to control most of the region. But it never lasted, and within a couple of years, the region was plunged into civil war, goathe
rd against fisherman, brother against uncle, farmer against merchant. The usual, in other words.
The cycle stopped about 250 years ago, and it did so in an odd way. In the middle of one of these endemic feuds, people started telling tales of how one of the clans (which clan depended on who was supplying the anecdote) had summoned a spectral force to fight on their side, a ghost army that came out of nowhere and vanished, leaving heaps of steaming corpses in its wake. Sound familiar? Of course, no one ever proved who summoned the ghost army, because it seemed to attack indiscriminately, wiping out entire families on all sides of the war. The only way the Vahlia clans survived the phantom soldiers was by bonding together into larger units, burying their differences, and joining their fighting resources. When the wars ended, just over a year later, three distinct powers had emerged. Borders were drawn up and the countries of Shale, Verneytha, and Greycoast were formed. In the next twenty years or so, the three capital cities emerged slowly from the ruined villages that had been there before, with construction on Ironwall, the most impressive and farthest east, starting first and finishing last.
I considered the ancient book and wondered what I was to make of such a yarn. There was clearly at least as much folktale here as there was history, but that is hardly unusual. The question, one I posed to the rest of the party after relaying what I had learned, was simple: Who would want to re-create some ancient legend about a ghost army and why?
“Someone who wants to scare people,” suggested Orgos. “Make the raiders seem impregnable, supernatural.”
“They’d have to be pretty superstitious to buy it,” I said, doubtful.
“People are quick to believe the worst, however implausible, when there is no hope of victory,” said Mithos, stirring the embers of the fire.
“But it’s just a story,” said Renthrette.
“There’s a basic link between story and history,” I said, beginning a lecture I had delivered many times before. But she scowled at me, so I decided to drop it.
“There was no reference to this ghost army wearing red, was there, Will?” asked Lisha.
“No,” I said.
“And you don’t believe in magic swords,” said Orgos, “so magic armies are probably. ”
“Nonsense,” I said, “yes.”
“So it’s probably just a coincidence,” said Garnet, as if this closed the matter.
I shrugged, but I didn’t think so. I don’t believe in fate, magic, or ghosts, but coincidence makes me nervous. It always leaves me feeling like the world-the rational, predictable, mundane world-is very slightly off kilter. I let it drop, but it stayed in my head, nestled there unpleasantly like a toad.
The sun had gone down, but the eastern sky was still orange, and as the darkness grew, that portion of the night seemed to have gotten brighter.
“What’s that?” I said.
They turned and stared.
“A fire?” said Garnet.
“Too big for a fire,” said Renthrette.
“No,” said Lisha, staring at the sky and smelling the air. “It is a fire.”
“We should take a look,” said Orgos.
Everyone’s hands slid towards their weapons. I hesitated, then followed suit.
Here we go, I thought. Here’s where it starts.
SCENE XXIII Glimpses by Firelight
Careful,” said Lisha, taking up her helm and adjusting the chin strap, “it can’t be more than half a mile around the edge of the wood.”
She moved, and we followed.
It was a fire.
At first the trees and buildings were smothered in a heavy black smoke, but as we got closer we caught flashes of amber breaking through as the wind shifted. There was a village out there, and it was burning. All of it.
We tied the horses to trees and edged closer. It took me a moment to realize that we had stopped talking, that there was something over-careful about the way the others were moving. When Orgos drew his sword, I knew what was going through his mind. This was no mere forest fire. It was the work of the enemy. I wrestled awkwardly with my crossbow till it was cocked, then tugged a quarrel from its case and, with unsteady fingers, fitted it into the groove.
We saw nothing at first, since the night was upon us now and the only light came from the flames. Mithos and Lisha consulted, then divided us into threes with a wordless gesture. I moved through the smoldering bracken with Orgos in front of me and Mithos behind. When we reached the first blackened building, we paused in silence to consider our next step. I flattened myself up against the brick of the house, and it was hot. The place had obviously been ablaze for some time. Beyond the house I could see little through the smoke, and my eyes were prickling at the dry air. I was sweating, and suddenly wanted nothing more than to get out of there.
The houses were arranged on either side of a central road. In another few seconds the three of us were huddled at the corner straining our eyes to see through the black haze that filled the street. As Orgos and Mithos tried to talk over the roar of the fire, I peered out. At the same moment, there was an explosive crack and an ominous tearing sound as half the wall above us shifted and leaned out. It was falling.
I ran forward into the road as the brickwork hurtled to the ground with a roar and a rush of sparks. Getting away from it took me across the street to a large plastered building that might have been a tavern. Its thatch smoldered and thick, greasy smoke curled from the cracks in the hot walls, suddenly enveloping me. My throat burned and I started to cough desperately as the skin of my arms pricked from the burning tinder falling from the roof. I stumbled about, rubbing my eyes, and somehow blundered out of the acrid fog and back into the burning street.
And suddenly, thirty yards in front of me, was a horseman.
He wore a helm that covered his face, and it glowed orange and yellow in the firelight. I saw the crimson cloak and the axlike scyax that hung in a leather case at his horse’s neck, and then I felt his invisible eyes meet mine. The horse turned fractionally, and the head of the rider’s lance dropped until it pointed at me.
For a moment, I couldn’t move. Then the rider’s heels tapped his horse’s flanks and he was coming towards me out of the smoke and flame.
I raised my crossbow so suddenly that the bolt fell out and landed on the ground a few feet away. Pointlessly I pulled the trigger anyway and the bow twanged and kicked as I flashed my eyes up and down the row of burning houses in search of the others. They were nowhere to be seen. Horrified, I turned back to the rider.
His horse had been walking, but now he spurred it, and it leapt towards me, surging like he was riding a wave of fire. He leaned in the saddle, extending his lance arm, braced and ready for the hit. The dirt leapt up from the horse’s hooves in dusty clods and the rider rocked low, scarlet cloak billowing, lance leveled at my heart.
Without taking my eyes from him and with my feet rooted to the ground I cried out, “Orgos! Mithos!”
Other riders were coming through the smoke towards me, a dozen or more of them, with their red cloaks flaring out behind them. My legs wouldn’t move. Around us the flames leapt and the lancer bore down on me.
And then he stopped as if shot. He reined his horse and brought it to a stuttering halt, almost rocking out of his saddle with the effort. The horse rose and kicked the air as the first two of the other riders drew alongside and a muffled voice called out, “What did he say?”
“Mithos,” shouted another.
Then I was aware of Orgos at my side, his swords drawn. As he pulled me back into the shadows of the burning tavern, I shook off the freezing terror that had struck me and ran towards Mithos, who was standing at the corner with an arrow in his bow. He shifted as we approached, as if I was blocking his shot, and then he became very still, as if he couldn’t see me at all. He drew back his bow and held it level as we ran past.
I was dashing back into the trees behind the buildings when I realized that there was no sound of pursuit. I looked back to the street and saw Mithos where we
had left him, bow taut and immobile. There was no sign of the riders who had been charging me, and when I doubled back a little to look for them, I caught only a glimpse of crimson movement way over at the other end of the street before the smoke engulfed them. Then they were gone.
SCENE XXIV Questions
I was more than a little unnerved by our first real encounter with the crimson raiders, but not in the ways you might expect. “Why did they let us go?” I demanded. We were back in our camp and trying, with no success whatsoever, to get to sleep.
“I don’t know,” said Mithos quietly.
“There were about fifteen of them at least,” I said. “Why didn’t they come after us? Why didn’t they kill me when they had the chance?”
“Good question,” muttered Renthrette. “Now go to sleep.”
“What?” I retorted. “Doesn’t this interest you? We interrupt these butchers in the middle of whatever the hell it is they do, they let us stroll away, and you don’t wonder why?”
“You want to know what I wonder?” she said, leaning towards me. “I wonder why you went wandering off and then started shouting names when you were about to get what you deserved.”
“I couldn’t see where I was for the smoke,” I protested, “and calling Mithos’s name seemed to help, wouldn’t you say?”
“It may have saved you,” she said with another half-grin, as if that was a minor point.
“It saved all of us,” I said.
She frowned thoughtfully, and looked to Lisha, who nodded.
“Will is right,” she said. “For whatever reason, the name of Mithos saved us. I saw them freeze as soon as they heard it. They were turning their horses around before Will could even start to run.”
“Perhaps they were afraid,” I suggested, shrugging off my irritation with Renthrette.
“Of what?” asked Mithos, rising up from his place by the fire and staring out towards the orange smudge in the sky above the village. “Of a word? Of my name? No. I may have acquired a bit of a reputation in Cresdon, but nothing to make a dozen or more heavily armed soldiers turn tail and run before they have even glimpsed me. And here, no one knows of us.”
Act of Will wh-1 Page 15
