The Tree of Story

by Thomas Wharton

  At the same time, more armed companies had begun to arrive. The larger forces were preceded by heralds, who sought permission in the name of their commanders to join the defence. Other, smaller bands of armed men came, as well, many of them makeshift companies of those who had joined in common cause after the Nightbane had overrun their homelands.

  The Course began to fill with more and more tents and pavilions, and the people of Fable, who were used to solitary travellers from strange lands, saw the greatest gathering of Storyfolk that anyone had ever witnessed. And each arriving band or troop or handful of armed men had a strange tale to tell of what had brought them here.

  Not all who came to Fable were soldiers or warriors. Some were farmers and villagers who were tired of running and hiding and wanted to make a stand. Others were folk whom the people of Fable would never have thought of as allies. There were unwelcome, even alarming faces among the new arrivals: hulking troll-men from the distant Bonelands, midnight hags, masked nomads of the Sand Sea, and the strange, unsettling people with sea-green skin and eyes like those of cats who were known only as the Otherfolk. All had come at great risk, for when they met scouting parties of the Errantry, they had been challenged and even attacked. But they all lay down their weapons and offered no resistance. They explained that this was as much their realm as anyone’s and they had come to help defend it.

  Late that evening, Lord Caliburn and the Mayor of Fable, Dame Oreande, left the city to join a council of the leaders of the still-assembling forces. The gathering was held in the great ivory-and-gold pavilion of the Red Duke, which had been chosen as the command post for the new and growing army. The captains and commanders assembled in the lantern light under the gently stirring silks of the pavilion, and many glances of surprise and suspicion went back and forth as the new allies got their first close look at one another. Some recognized those who had once been enemies, while others saw strange, outlandish faces and stared rudely or looked away in disdain. The mood in the pavilion was tense and threatening to worsen, when the Duke stepped into the middle of the crowd and raised his hand for quiet.

  The Red Duke of Tintamarre was an elderly but still powerful-looking man, with a mane of snow-white hair and a trim white beard. His cloak was a huge bearskin clasped at the neck with a silver chain, the thick reddish-brown fur flecked with grey. A scabbard of polished wood inlaid with a pattern of green and white stones hung from his belt, but the scabbard held no sword.

  The Duke began by welcoming everyone warmly. His voice was deep and commanded attention, but it did not threaten or attempt to master. It was a calm, reasonable voice, acknowledging everyone present without distinction of rank or race. The commanders heard the quiet authority in the Duke’s voice and the good sense and submitted to it. The muttering died and the sharp glances ceased.

  The Duke, as host, thanked everyone for coming and then he invited the Mayor of Fable to speak for her city. Dame Oreande was a tall woman with iron-grey hair cut severely short. Her gown was dark green and plain, her only adornment a shoulder brooch in the shape of a swan. She stepped forward and expressed the thanks of the people of Fable to all those who had travelled from near and far to help defend the city and the Bourne.

  “There is much to discuss and plan, and time is against us,” the Mayor went on, “but we needn’t cast aside courtesy as a result. We should learn one another’s names and hear the story of what brought us here. That must happen first if we’re to rely on one another in the days ahead.”

  She introduced herself and the Marshal, and then invited the Red Duke, as the first of the allies to arrive, to come forward again and speak. The Duke bowed to the Mayor and then briefly told of his search for the city he had seen in his dream. He described how on their march his army had passed through the devastation caused by the gathering Nightbane hordes. He also said that he knew of other commanders and their troops who were now cut off from reaching Fable because the enemy was in their path. Some of these allies had managed to get messengers through to him to say that they were seeking other roads into the Bourne, but it meant that they would likely not arrive in time to join the defence.

  When the Duke was finished, he invited the other commanders to tell their stories. Two people seated near him, side by side, rose at the same time. One was a sharp-faced, red-bearded man in sleek furs, the other a tall, proud-looking woman in a coat of shining mail. They eyed each other uneasily and then gave their names and titles, which none of the Bournefolk present had heard before.

  “A year ago today,” the bearded man began, “our two armies met for what was to be the final battle that would bring our long war to an end. All that day by the sea the fighting raged. Many brave men and women on both sides fell. Blazing pitch flew from catapults. Great volleys of arrows darkened the sun. The earth ran red with blood.

  “When evening fell, there was still no clear victor. Our armies gathered and rallied under their banners one last time for the final clash that would decide all. We marched toward one another, hammering our swords and spears against our shields and taunting with hoarse voices. Only death lay ahead and we all knew it.”

  “Then the ranks slowed and came to a halt,” the woman said, picking up the story. “Each of us fell silent and stared in wonder at what had appeared on the narrow strip of bloody ground that lay between our armies. A small child walked there. A child in spotless white, fair of face and without any mark of war or wound. He walked through the filth and blood as if strolling through a summer meadow. And all of us knew that the fighting was over for that day. The banners of war were lowered and flags of truce were raised. And then the two of us”—she glanced at the bearded man—“stepped forward and met for the first time between our two armies. We went to the child and spoke to him. We asked him which side he had come from and who his parents were, since we assumed he was the child of some man or woman on the battlefield that day. The child did not speak. We understood then that his wits were gone. And looking into his empty eyes, we saw our own madness at last. We saw the doom we were bringing to both our peoples. So we lay down our weapons and took each other’s hands and vowed there would be peace between us.”

  “But peace made in a moment can easily fall apart in a day,” the man went on. “Many on both sides opposed the armistice. Blood had been spilled for so long that vengeance had become our daily bread. We knew the truce was too fragile to last and so we did the only thing we could. If our people wished to fight, we would seek out another war, so that instead of being turned on one another, our swords would be united against a common enemy. Then perhaps we would learn to trust one another again.”

  The bearded man and the woman grasped hands and sat down in their places.

  One by one the other commanders rose to tell their tales. Some had come from other distant wars that they had believed would be the last they would ever have to fight. A few of the younger commanders had never led their people in battle before but had seen no other choice. Many had made the journey to Fable because an omen or a prophecy had called them here, while some admitted they had come only because they had heard of a chance to kill Nightbane.

  The last to speak was the dwarf Mimling Hammersong, who had arrived with his six brothers and thirty of his kinfolk from the hills west of the Bourne. Mimling limped into the middle of the ring of commanders, abashed by all the stern martial faces around him. He cleared his throat and began.

  “I’m not here because of a dream or a legend, like most of you, or even because I like smashing Nightbane skulls,” the dwarf rumbled. “Though I used to enjoy that a lot. No, I’m here for my lady Rowen of Blue Hill. Most of you have never heard of her and don’t know who she is, nor do you care, but I promised Will Lightfoot that I would return to Fable for Rowen’s sake and here I am. My brothers and cousins are not warriors. They never took up the questing life as I did, but they’ve brought their hammers and shovels and axes for whatever work needs doing, whether it be strengthening defences or, should the defences fail,
smashing Nightbane skulls.”

  When they had all given their names and told their stories, Lord Caliburn rose. The Marshal of the Errantry was grey headed and stern looking and had no gracious words of welcome for the assembly. Of all those gathered there only Dame Oreande knew that he had not always been so sombre and cold, that there had been a time, before the death of his son, that the Marshal had been known for his hearty laugh and his warm, open way with others. But little of that man remained now, and the news he had was grave. In his usual clipped, unadorned way, Caliburn gave the latest report of the movements of the enemy and how close their growing force had already come to Annen Bawn, the Errantry citadel that defended the Bourne’s northern border. Before the stir his words caused had fully died down, he went on to relate what he had learned from Balor Gruff about the even more terrible threat of the armoured fetches.

  “As far as I can understand it,” the Marshal said, “they’re something like mechanical men, puppets that can move on their own. But these armoured spectres aren’t puppets made to amuse. There are thousands of them, each one bound to the will of our enemy, and they will not tire or halt or heed pleas for mercy.”

  “How far away is this host, my lord?” the Red Duke asked.

  “Gruff tells me they neither rest nor sleep, which means they can cover a hundred miles in a single day and night. They could be here in as few as seven days, by his reckoning. I’ve learned to trust his reckoning.”

  At that voices were raised in alarm and dismay. The Duke raised a hand for quiet, and when it had been restored, the Marshal went on.

  “I have sent Gruff to Annen Bawn to give the garrison there warning and such knowledge as he has about the threat,” he said. “A company of reinforcements has also been outfitted and will start within the hour for the citadel. What we must decide is whether our alliance should make its stand here or join the defence at Annen Bawn. For my part, I believe it is too late to march our still-gathering force to the Bawn before the Nightbane assault it. The walls at the Bawn are thick and strong, and the valley narrow. Three hundred can hold the citadel as easily as three thousand. Once the fetch host reaches there, however, it is hard to say what will happen. From what Balor Gruff has told me, these creatures are not likely to be turned back by walls or difficult terrain. If they find their way blocked at the citadel, they may simply climb into the hills on either side of it and so come to Fable by other paths. One thing is certain: whatever strange call or prophecy or dream has brought all of you to Fable has brought our enemies, as well. This city is their goal and they will not stop until they reach it. And so I say this must be where we make our stand. All that we can ask of the brave souls at Annen Bawn is that they purchase us some time, which we should spend preparing to meet this threat.”

  At that a debate began. Many voices were raised in support of the Marshal’s view, while others urged they all march at once for the citadel. Still others put forward more elaborate plans that involved various movements of troops to divide or surround the enemy forces. In the end, however, most of those present, including Lord Caliburn, turned to the Red Duke and waited for him to speak. One thing alone seemed to have been agreed upon without the words having to be spoken: that the Duke would lead this alliance and his would be the final say.

  When silence had fallen again and all eyes were on him, the Duke rose and stood beside Lord Caliburn.

  “The Marshal’s plan seems most sound to me,” he said. “If it’s true our enemy has no purpose other than the taking of this city, we should not divide our forces at this late hour. But I will not have it said that a few stood alone shielding the rest of us while we waited here, so I will also send some of my men to Annen Bawn.”

  His words brought swift and general agreement among the commanders, and many also pledged troops to the reinforcements the Marshal was dispatching to the citadel. Then the Duke spoke again, saying there was still much to plan and prepare, but for now those who had just arrived should have time to rest from their journey. At that the gathering broke up, though there was still much loud talk and debate among the commanders as they filed out of the pavilion, only now it was talk among allies rather than strangers.

  Lord Caliburn and the Mayor remained behind with the Duke after the others had left, at his request. The Duke wished to know everything they could tell him about the city itself, the strengths and weaknesses of its walls and other defences. Yet he also made it clear he would not set foot in Fable himself, nor would he permit any of his men to do so, and he would encourage the other commanders to follow his example.

  “We’re here to prevent an invasion, not become one,” he said with a smile.

  The Marshal had brought a map of Fable with him and now he unrolled it on the Duke’s chart table and went over the plan of the city point by point, with the Duke asking questions and making observations. The Mayor added her own thoughts from time to time, but for the most part she simply listened, studying the Duke. There was something in his voice and manner, she thought, something calm and direct and unconcerned for his own dignity, that would inspire trust and loyalty in anyone. The strange notion struck her that in some other time and place, perhaps in another realm altogether, this white-headed Duke with his bearskin cloak had worn a grander robe, and in that empty scabbard there had been a sword as renowned as its bearer. The longer she observed and listened, the more certain she became that she was right. And that thought gave her hope.

  5

  THE SAME NIGHT THAT the commanders met in the Duke’s pavilion, the mage Ammon Brax returned to the toyshop at Pluvius Lane.

  He was not alone. With him came Captain Thorne and six hand-picked Errantry troopers. It had taken some doing, but Brax had persuaded Thorne to free the Marrowbone brothers from custody and bring them along, as well.

  As they approached the dark, silent shop, Brax glanced back and eyed the huge, pig-faced brothers with distaste. Hodge and Flitch Marrowbone were trolls of a kind known as hogmen, and it was not difficult to see where the name had come from. Flitch, the older of the two hogmen and the one who always took the lead, strode along with a gloating sneer on his face, clearly delighted to be free at last. The other hogman, Hodge, was larger and more powerfully built, but he looked frightened and miserable and kept glancing around nervously.

  The brothers had been locked up at Appleyard for their crimes, which included, if the rumours were to be believed, eating people. They were vicious and stupid, and could be intimidating to anyone who didn’t know what cowards they really were. That made them useful.

  Between the brothers, looking small and frail next to their grotesque bulk, stood the young Skalding woman Freya Ragnarsdaughter. Her jaw was set defiantly, but in her eyes Brax saw the fear she was trying to hide. He’d brought her along because he suspected she might also be useful to him in the dangerous game he was about to play here. She would have to be watched, though, and that was another reason for bringing the hogmen. Freya and her people had captured the Marrowbone brothers and turned them in to the Errantry, and the hogmen had been waiting for their revenge. They were not about to let her out of their sight.

  Captain Thorne reached the door first. He was a large man with a craggy face and thick black brows. An imposing figure, Brax thought, if you didn’t notice his darting eyes and the nervous pursing of his lips. Thorne was one of those men with dreams much greater than his abilities. There were always a few like that on the council at Kyning Rore. If you knew what men like that wanted, you had them.

  Brax drew a deep breath and gripped his ivory staff tighter. If this attempt to take back the toyshop failed, it was all over for him in Fable. He needed the Loremaster’s power. He needed to control that mysterious, secret force that some called werefire. Without it, he would have no choice but to flee back to Kyning Rore and wait with the other mages as their powers slipped away and the destruction that was about to fall on Fable came to their doors, too.

  The fading had begun quietly, with rumours of far-off lands f
alling into shadow and silence. The council of mages had watched and waited, unwilling to intervene in matters that seemed remote and of little consequence to them. Too late the mages understood that the fading had already reached them: their own power had begun to wane. They still knew all the spells and incantations, but there was little force in them anymore. Water, earth, fire and stone: the elements no longer obeyed their will. And as they felt their magecraft dwindle, their trust in Brax waned, as well. At times he had been reduced to conjuring tricks, mere sleight of hand, to maintain his hold over the council.

  What power still remained to him was contained in the staff, and even that was not his own: he had wrested it from the dead hand of a sorceress he’d been forced to kill after he stumbled upon her secret lair. No one at Kyning Rore had suspected the staff was a weapon of dark spellcraft, for he himself had banned such things from the island. He had kept it as a last resort should his enemies on the council attempt to depose him. He knew the staff held enough power to unleash one last deadly strike, and so he’d held it in reserve and waited while he watched his own powers trickle steadily away.

  And then word had reached him of the rebel mages at Skald and how they had unleashed a plague of werefire. The name of his old teacher, Nicholas Pendrake, was mentioned by those who brought the news. Pendrake, they said, had tamed the dreaded fire single-handedly and driven it back to wherever it came from. It was then that Brax knew what he had to do. The risk had been tremendous, leaving the council leaderless to make the long journey in search of the old man. But that danger paled against the threat of Malabron and the possibility of learning Pendrake’s secret, of seizing control of the secret fire. Only the fire could save him from the power of the Shadow Realm.

  The captain lifted a hand to knock on the door, then he paused and turned to the mage.

  “Master Brax, you said the boy had the wolf with him,” Thorne began. “He’s said to be very strong.”