Will Power

by A. J. Hartley

  He smiled bleakly and made his little half-shrug again, so that his head bobbed and his eyebrows raised a little. It was an alarmingly human gesture.

  “This Pale Claw sect,” I said. “They attacked me in the city. As did some of . . . your people.”

  “There is something about your presence here that I don’t fully understand,” said the goblin. “For years now it has been rumored that Outsiders, neither my people nor what you call the fair folk, would play a decisive role in the war. Many here see you as those Outsiders, and while this gives some of us hope, it scares others. Factions on both sides of the war feel it is best to destroy you, while others seek to draw you into their respective camps to help them to victory. Garnet and Renthrette have been wooed by the Arak Drül as Orgos and Mithos have been wooed by us. Lisha was hidden until very recently. That left you, and your position was—perhaps still is—unclear to both sides, making you a target to both.”

  “If the ‘fair folk,’ or whatever you called them, the . . .”

  “Arak Drül.”

  “Whatever. If they wanted me dead, why didn’t the king just execute me?” I asked.

  “Some in Phasdreille’s ruling council expected to be able to use you as a weapon. But the Pale Claw sect, who are bent on the destruction of all who are not pure-blooded members of their race, were sufficiently doubtful of your natural inclinations that they tried to kill you before your allegiance had become clear. I suspect that they were also responsible for trying to discredit you in the eyes of the court during the palace festivities two nights ago. Yes, we have heard much of your experiences through your friends and they have spoken for you. If they had not . . .” his voice trailed off and he shrugged again. “Well,” he concluded, “they did. We trust them. So.”

  It wasn’t a ringing vote of confidence but it was as good as I was going to get.

  “Now you are here,” Orgos cut in, “and Mithos and I have spoken on your behalf, but you can’t expect them to instantly treat you as one of them. But don’t worry, Will. You will have time to prove yourself to them soon enough.”

  Splendid, I thought. It was almost funny how keen my friends were for me to prove myself by risking life and limb. Whenever Orgos talked of “proving myself,” part of my intestine seemed to wrap itself around my kidneys and squeeze. To less flamboyantly noble people, “proving oneself” might hinge on an enthusiastically worded testimonial from Someone High Up. To Orgos, it meant facing sizable armies while armed with a modestly sized baguette. When Orgos says that you’re going to show them what you’re made of, you can usually take it literally.

  “You want me to storm Phasdreille by myself?” I suggested.

  “That wouldn’t be practical at the moment,” Orgos answered seriously.

  “Fine,” I replied bitterly. “Later this afternoon, perhaps. In the meantime, I could clean up the forest; you know, drain the swamp, make everything grow, and build a row of gazebos along the riverbank. Do goblins like gazebos? I mean, I’d hate them to be disappointed in me.”

  “Don’t call them goblins,” Orgos answered, with a look at Toth.

  “What?”

  “Don’t call them . . .”

  “I heard what you said. It was a rhetorical ‘what?’ As in: You must be joking.”

  “I’m not joking.”

  “Then what should I call them?” I demanded petulantly.

  “This land is called Stehnmarch,” said Toth. “It was called that long before those you call the fair folk came to it. We, its inhabitants, are therefore the Stehnish, or Stehnites. That’s all. ‘Goblin’ is a foul word and no one here uses it. You might bear that in mind.”

  Sure. A name is a name. If it kept their steel out of my spinal cord, I’d call their enemy the Arak Drül and I’d call them the Stehnish, but they sure as hell looked like goblins to me. But you know what they say: If it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it’s probably something altogether nobler, like maybe a unicorn.

  I was considering this, absently watching Orgos shave with his leaf-bladed dagger and wondering why he bothered going through this little ritual every day, when one of the worthy Stehnites graced us with his company. “Captain Orgos,” he said. “You are required in the meeting hall immediately.”

  Orgos nodded promptly and put his knife away. I watched the honorable Stehnishman leave with Toth, then turned on the sword-master with astonishment. “Captain? You’ve allied yourself with this rabble?”

  “Why not? Their cause is just.”

  “You think.”

  “I know.”

  “That’s not the point!” I spluttered. “Look at them! Not at whether they’re goblins or not,” I added hastily, seeing him ready to interject. “I mean, look at their army, if you can call it that. They’re disorganized, untrained, poorly armed . . .”

  “The last I’ll grant you,” said Orgos, wiping his face and heading back to the stairs. “But they are not disorganized, and they are passionate soldiers.”

  “But untrained.”

  “Well, yes, largely, but—”

  “And you’ve joined up with these goblin idiots—sorry, Stehnite idiots—to fight against the likes of Sorrail and his archers and his horsemen?”

  “They need me,” Orgos answered.

  “So you have to fight for them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have to stand up with every weak and crippled force that you think has a genuine grievance regardless of whether they’re going to get flattened like a ladybug charging a rhino?”

  “Yes,” he said. And that, I suppose, was the end of that. And him, probably.

  “I’d better get my sword sharpened,” I said, miserably.

  “So, you will fight?”

  “No. I was planning on slashing my wrists now,” I answered. “You know, nip all that pointless hope in the bud.”

  “They need you, Will,” said Orgos, giving me one of his level, sincere looks.

  “No one needs me,” I replied quickly. “And no, I’m not looking for sympathy. I’m just telling the truth. I’m virtually useless in a battle. I can shoot a crossbow, but I’ve seen farm animals that could be trained to do that. I can barely draw a sword without slicing something crucial off myself. My best hope is that the enemy will laugh themselves to death.”

  “But if your heart is true—” Orgos began.

  “Rubbish,” I cut in. “And anyway, my heart isn’t true. In fact, if we’re being honest, lies are my strong suit. You need someone to swear on everything holy that black is white, I’m your man. But give me something pointed and ask me to lay down my life for truth, virtue, and some very dodgy-looking Stehnites and you’re on a loser.”

  “I get the point,” said Orgos.

  “Sorry.”

  “Well, you’ll probably change your mind.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Let me rephrase that,” said Orgos thoughtfully. “You’ll have to change your mind.”

  My internal alarm bells began clanging heavily. “What does that mean?” I demanded.

  “Well . . .” Orgos began with a look as close to sheepish as he was ever likely to manage. “How long have we been friends, Will?”

  “Nowhere near long enough to justify whatever you’re about to say.”

  “How many times have I saved your life?”

  “What have you done?”

  There was a weighty pause and he took a long breath. “We had a meeting last night after you had gone to bed.”

  “Who’s we?” I demanded, now surly and apprehensive.

  “Mithos, Lisha, and several of the Stehnite leaders.”

  “Why do I wish I had been there?” I mused aloud.

  “I knew you wanted to, well, prove yourself to the Stehnites, so . . .”

  “That was you!” I exclaimed. “I never wanted to prove myself to anyone. You wanted that. I wanted to prove how little I cared about anything, and did so by drinking about eight pints.”

  “Well, I made it sound
like you’d volunteered,” Orgos continued, undaunted and smiling, as if I would thank him for all this one day.

  “To do what?”

  “It’s best if the Stehnite Council tells you.”

  “No, it’s not. It’s best if you spill your guts before I have to spill mine less figuratively.”

  I had been so engrossed in this ominous exchange that I hadn’t noticed Mithos’s soundless approach. Suddenly he was beside me. He gave us a brief look and said, in a tone whose seriousness was almost sinister, “It’s time.”

  The Stehnite Council was eighteen men strong—or rather, as Renthrette would have annoyingly pointed out, was eighteen persons strong: Eight of them were women. All of them were dressed in darkly grand fashion, many sporting armor made of ancient metal and leather laced together at the edges and shaped outlandishly into horns, veined wings, and other animal parts, many hung with colored horsehair or feathers. Some wore armored masks, others clasped heirloom weapons finer than any I had seen in Phasdreille, and all of them seemed lost in memories of ancient times. Among them was Toth, so quiet and dignified that I did not initially recognize him. He was seated with a naked blade across his knees and, like the rest of them, his face was somber and thoughtful.

  They sat in a circle in a swept corner of the cavern, a brace of large, swarthy Stehnites a good ten yards away from curious bystanders, though still within earshot. This last was of no consequence that I could see since the assembly was completely silent. Ominously silent, you might say. They sat like statues, eyes downcast like attendants at the funeral of someone they didn’t know very well. I can’t say I liked the feel of this, particularly as Mithos shepherded me into the center of the circle, his fingers curled round my upper arm with a grasp that could not be argued with. Then the grip was relaxed and I was left by myself in the middle. The council’s eyes rose from the floor to meet me and I decided I liked this still less. The funereal atmosphere was now augmented by something stern and sacrificial. If I was watching a funeral, it was likely to be my own.

  For a moment, no one spoke. But then a sigh, as of resolve, seemed to escape several, maybe all, of them simultaneously, and, without any visible cue, they began to speak in unison.

  “William Hawthorne,”—their voices were slow and somber, even sad—“reviewing your assault on the Stehnite settlement known as the Falcon’s Nest, this council finds you guilty of four separate counts of murder. Do you have anything to say?”

  My jaw dropped and the room spun as if I had been slapped in the head by a roofing beam. Murder? How could an adventurer be tried for murder? I had killed a few goblins while trying to rescue my companions. That’s what adventurers did. I was the hero here. Heroes don’t murder, they . . . well, they kill the evil and degenerate. But that wasn’t going to work as a defense. Maybe I could blame Renthrette. . . .

  No. I began to speak. “Worthy council members, that I slew . . . er . . . people I believed to be enemies, I cannot and do not deny. That I slew them maliciously or knowing their worth, I do deny. I did what I believed was right because I had been . . . misinformed. I do not mean that someone misinformed me on that particular day, that I hold the Arak Drül solely responsible. No. I was misinformed from the day of my birth. I was raised in a society where all people are judged according to their appearance. We shun the deformed and the sick; we despise those who are different from us. We even deride those who do not dress according to our customs and fashions. What we think of as abnormal we consider degenerate. What is different from our standards, we consider to have failed to meet them.

  “As a child,” I said, warming to my subject, “my grandmother told me tales of hideous goblins whose appearance matched their evil, just as her mother had told her. When I came to this land, I found what I thought was confirmation of those tales in the words of Sorrail and the Arak Drül, and the strange (to my eyes) creatures that lived in the mountains. The Arak Drül culture lined up beside that which I had been raised in, so I believed them all too easily. I was wrong, but at that time I could not have assessed how wrong I was. I now know differently. I see you are an intelligent, subtle, and sophisticated race. I have read your literature and paced the sculpted streets of your city and I know your quality. This is why I do not despair. I know your virtues and, humbly, I throw myself upon them. You value truth, so I have given it to you. And as you are just, so, I beg you, be merciful.”

  That went quite well, I thought. I concluded with a searching and soulful look, turning to look upon each of them in turn, then I bowed respectfully and waited. Nothing happened. Then one of them, a female swathed in a robe of blue so dark it looked like the night sky, made a minute gesture with one hand and one of the larger guards escorted me from the circle. I was turned loose and began to stroll away when a low murmur of discussion rose from the seated council. I wandered to a corner, where I sat on a low bench and poured myself a small beer from a leather flagon. Orgos followed me.

  He stopped a few feet away from me, watching. I offered him a cup, but he shook his head and stayed where he was, looking at me keenly, his eyes narrow and thoughtful.

  “What?” I asked. “Was it not enough?”

  “I’m sure it was plenty,” he said slowly. “It was a good argument, and they will take it seriously.”

  “Good,” I said, drinking.

  “Did you?” he asked, his eyes still level on me.

  “Did I what?”

  “Did you take it seriously?”

  I thought for a second, then hedged: “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean, Will,” Orgos replied, coming no nearer, and standing stiffer than ever. “Did you mean it? Any of it? Or was it just another bit of theater, a speech designed to manipulate?”

  “Of course it wasn’t,” I said, but my voice had been hesitant.

  “Of course it wasn’t,” he echoed, blankly. Then he turned on his heel and walked away.

  Had I meant it? The damnedest thing was, I really didn’t know. A good performer has to believe what he’s saying as he says it or the audience smells deception. It had made sense to me, and I knew it would make sense to them, but how much I thought all this cultural upbringing stuff was a sufficient excuse or explanation for what I had done, something that would rightly stop them from stringing me up and testing their spears on me, I couldn’t say.

  But it did work. Kind of.

  They didn’t string me up. Instead, they gave me a mission, which sounded like good news until I heard the details of what they wanted me to do.

  Stringing me up would have been a lot quicker.

  SCENE XIX

  The Halls of the Dead

  “The bridge guards bear out your story,” said Sorrail grimly, “but you can’t expect anyone here to believe that you have returned to Phasdreille of your own accord. Look at me when I speak to you!”

  He took hold of my chin and yanked it up, slapping me hard as he did so. The guards around me hoisted me roughly into an upright, kneeling position, one of them dragging me by a fistful of hair. My cheek was so swollen with bruising that my left eye was a sightless slit. I looked at Sorrail with my right and gasped an attempt to speak. Blood spattered from my mouth in a fine spray, and a droplet fell on Sorrail’s white linen tunic. He scowled at it and then, almost casually, kicked me hard in the ribs. I collapsed onto the stone floor coughing and spitting blood.

  I had no idea how long this had been going on: An hour? Two? I had been picked up by the bridge guard and brought directly to Sorrail who, assisted by his more enthusiastic troops, had beaten me periodically ever since. As I got my breath back and cleared my throat, I wheezed out my story again. “I told you already. I ran from the city and into the forest. I walked into a huge goblin army. Some of them saw me and came after me. I ran. I knew the city guards would take me in as a criminal and, with half a dozen bear-riding goblins on my tail, that seemed the best plan. I also thought that by bringing word of the enemy force, I might make up, at least in part, for my past cr
imes in the city. That’s all there is to tell.”

  I sank to the floor again, coughing, exhausted by my narrative and feeling, more than ever, the ache in my jaw where I had been punched.

  “These goblins,” Sorrail demanded, and as he came close to me I could smell his scrubbed body, still fragrant with the soap they made by boiling down goblin fat. “What standard did they bear?”

  I thought for a moment. “A white half-moon—a crescent—on a red background.”

  Sorrail looked at me, and though his gaze was hard and hateful as before, it held a hint of uncertainty.

  “He could have seen that in the last attack on the city,” suggested a burly sergeant, scornfully.

  “No,” said Sorrail, distantly. “That device is borne only by the mountain tribes to the north. They have not been seen here for many months, and certainly did not participate in any of our recent engagements. If they were here . . .”

  His voice trailed off and he stood for a moment in silence. Then he squatted suddenly and spoke directly to my face. “These goblins, the ones riding the brown bears, were they—”

  I cut him off, spotting the test. “The bears weren’t brown, they were black. Kind of charcoal but . . .”

  “Kind of?”

  “They looked black but they had, like, a sheen that was bluish and silvery, like steel.”

  The guards looked at me, then at each other, then at Sorrail. His eyes burned into mine and he knew that I was speaking the truth. I could not have come up with that kind of detail unless I had seen them.

  “And these were the only beasts they had with them?” he prompted.

  “Yes. No. There were wolves, too, like the ones that attacked us when you found us in the mountains.”

  He hesitated, caught slightly off-guard by this remark and the memories it evoked, perhaps because I had been unable to conceal the bitter amusement in my voice. Then I had taken him as a savior, someone who might keep the hand of evil from my throat. It was a nasty irony, but I think I was able to swallow that back before it showed in my face. As it was, he merely smiled darkly and said, almost comfortingly, “No one here need fear their wolves. They know me by the foul pelts I have flayed from their loathsome fellows, and have learned to avoid me in the mountains, no matter how many of them there are. They will learn to flee me on the battlefield also. But their goblin masters: You did not attempt to speak to them, or? . . .”