by Mike Ashley
It had been during his second year at Faramir’s that one of his tutors had told him that he was a good enough fighter to beat Koban Bloodsword himself. It had been the first time that Mavol had heard the name, but as the weeks passed and several other tutors also compared him to this mysterious warrior, his curiosity had been raised. During half-term he had spent some time in talking to experienced fighters and researching in Ged’s city library, and had discovered that this Koban was generally held by the fighting fraternity to be the greatest warrior alive.
It was then that his quest had taken shape in his mind, and he had suddenly found an aim in his life. He would graduate from Warrior School and spend a few years as a professional fighting man, doing gladiator or bodyguard work and honing his skills. And then, when he was as good a fighter as he could possibly become, he would seek out this legend and defeat him. And in doing so he would prove that he, Mavol, was the best.
And now, after four long years, he was as ready as he would ever be. He had made the long journey north to Malvenis, and he was about to fulfil his destiny. Within a few hours, he would carve a niche for himself in the chronicles of Midworld as the man who killed Koban Bloodsword. That is, as long as Koban didn’t kill him instead . . .
It was past noon the next day when the road eventually levelled out to run through the high pass that cut through the Irridic Mountains, leading down towards the Dwarven settlement of Easterndelve. Mavol could tell that few if any people had passed this way for many a month. Mosses, ferns and weeds covered the bare, compacted earth, and in places sweet-briers had writhed across the track and lay there undisturbed. He was travelling cautiously now, sword in hand, but so far he had found no evidence of life. Just the opposite, in fact, for there were signs of death everywhere.
Human bones and skulls were scattered around where the scavenging beasts of the mountains had left them, and broken swords, cloven shields and discarded armour were strewn along either side of the road. Much killing had taken place here, but it had plainly happened a long while ago. The weapons and armour were rusted and dull, and the bones were brittle and greying with age.
Mavol paused and wiped his brow. He was sweating, not from heat or exertion, for he was fit and the mountain air was cool, but from nerves. If the myths and stories were to be believed, Koban was waiting somewhere ahead of him, but where? What was the routine of a man who set himself up in an isolated mountain pass and challenged all-comers to combat? Did he get up every morning and sit at the side of the road, waiting for challengers? Did he lie in wait and ambush the unwary? Was there a bell hanging at the side of the road which people were meant to ring if they wanted to take him on? The more that Mavol thought about it, the odder the whole set-up seemed to be.
I mean, he said to himself as he picked his way past the clutching tendrils of the sweet-briers, why would anyone want to leave a nice place like Malvenis to live for years in the wilderness, fighting total strangers just because they wanted to pass through the mountains? You’d have to be mentally unstable at the very least, if not downright insane. And what would you do to pass the time? Stuck up here for years, with just the occasional passer-by to butcher, you’d go out of your mind with boredom! I reckon he must have jacked it in years ago. That’s what I’d do. Stay here long enough to get myself a reputation, then slide quietly off to an eastern city where no one knew me and . . .
Mavol froze in mid-step, jerked back to reality with a bump, for someone had coughed ahead of him. It was difficult to judge how far away they were, for sound travelled a long distance through the clear air of the mountains, but Mavol guessed that they were not more than fifty yards ahead, probably just over the small rise in the ground that he was starting to climb. Of course, it might be another traveller, but somehow he thought it unlikely. Anyone passing this way would know all about Koban Bloodsword and would be keeping as quiet as a mouse. And not a normal mouse, either, but a dead one wrapped in swathes of cotton wool after its voice-box had been removed. No, there could only be one source for the cough. Koban himself!
Twin waves of exhilaration and fear swept through him, and he swallowed painfully as his stomach threatened to rebel. Then, clutching his sword in his damp hands and hardly daring to breathe, he crept forwards. Pace after silent pace he climbed the rise, craning his neck to peer ahead, until he had reached the top and could see the track as it wound its way down to disappear between two outcrops of rock. At first he saw nobody and thought he must have misjudged the distance of the cough, but then a slight movement caught his eye and he realized with a thrill of excitement that someone was sitting on a boulder in front of the right-hand outcrop.
It was a very old man dressed in tattered remnants of clothes. Once he must have been tall and strong, but now his shoulders were stooped and the wrinkled skin hung loosely on his thin, lanky frame. Ragged tendrils of sparse white hair draped round his shoulders and long, bent fingernails protruded from hands that shook uncontrollably. Beside him, a massive sword was stuck point first into the soil, but it must have been planted there for a long, long time, for ivy had crept up the blade to hang loosely from the pommel, almost 5 feet from the ground.
Mavol crept forwards, but the old man didn’t notice him. He was staring blankly into space, lost in the imaginings of his ailing mind, and his lips moved incessantly as he conducted a silent conversation with himself. Mavol paused as something shifted beneath his foot, and looked down. The ground here was thickly strewn with crumbling old bones and half-rotted armour, and Mavol sighed and lowered his sword, smiling wryly. He had found Koban Bloodsword.
Now that he thought about it, it made perfect sense. He had read a lot about Koban’s exploits, but nothing much had been written about his age. However, if you stopped to work it out, the guy must have been at least fifty when he left Malvenis. How long had he been living up here in the mountains? Ten years? Twenty? By the Gods, the guy must be at least sixty-five, and probably older. But then that was the problem with being a famous warrior. You attained super-hero status and people believed the myths. They would think of you as you were at your peak, even when the ravages of time were taking their cold-blooded toll. With a shiver, Mavol was suddenly uncomfortably aware of his own mortality, and he looked at the stooped old warrior with a new fear.
“Oh, hello,” said a voice behind him, and Mavol twitched so violently he nearly cut his own foot off. Whirling round, he found he was being studied by a grimy, rag-clad figure even thinner and scrawnier than Koban, although a good deal younger.
“Come to challenge the old sod, have you?” the figure continued, smiling to expose teeth that looked as though they had been made out of mouldy cheese. “I’m not surprised. I knew that sooner or later someone would figure out that he must have got so decrepit that he would be ripe for the chop.”
It shoved a filthy hand into its matted mass of hair and scratched with enthusiasm. Mavol watched with horror as several small, multi-legged creatures were dislodged and fell to the ground. Then the hand emerged holding a plump head-louse between its filthy fingers.
“It must be four years since the last guy challenged him,” the figure continued, “and the daft old codger has really lost it since then. Can’t even remember who he is, most of the time. Just sits on that rock all day long. Thinks he’s waiting for visitors.”
The figure paused to inspect the louse, then burst it with a quick squeeze of the fingers, wiped the remnants from its hand onto a filthy sleeve, and held out the hand in greeting.
“By the way, my name’s Norman,” it smiled. “How do you do?”
Mavol took the hand reluctantly and tried to shake it without actually touching it.
“Er . . . hello,” he managed.
“So. You’re a warrior, I take it?” continued Norman. “I’m a hermit, myself. Have been for eight years. I used to be a scrivener in a bank in Derchey, but I hated it. Absolutely hated it. I’d always fancied the country life, so when my wife ran off with a jongleur, I thought now’s your ch
ance, Norman. And I’ve never regretted it. Never.”
He looked across at Koban, who seemed to have nodded off on his boulder and was making slight snoring noises.
“Mind you,” he continued, “I’m going to miss that cantankerous old bugger after you’ve topped him. He’s kept me busy these past few years looking after him, I can tell you. If it wasn’t for me he’d have starved or frozen. Still, what are neighbours for, eh?”
He paused again to give his hair another good scratching, rendering several more small creatures homeless, and then held his hand out to Mavol a second time.
“Well, it’s been nice meeting you, but I must be running along. Its almost lunch-time, and I haven’t gone scavenging yet. I’d ask you back for a few locusts and some wild honey, but I know you’ve got a job to do, so I’ll leave you to it. Say goodbye to him for me, would you, before you lop his head off?”
With that the hermit pumped Mavol’s hand up and down again before turning and trotting off along the track. Mavol watched him go, then wiped his hand gingerly on his jerkin and turned his attention back to Koban.
The old man had woken up, and was staring around him with the bemused air of someone who had expected to wake up in bed but has found himself sitting on a boulder in the middle of nowhere instead. Mavol gazed at him, and the full import of the situation suddenly struck home. The old guy was defenceless! It was going to be a piece of cake! After all these years, he was about to attain his dream of becoming the man who killed Koban Bloodsword, the greatest fighter in Midworld. He would be renowned throughout the land! But it was strange how little enthusiasm he seemed to be able to dredge up for the task . . .
And then he thought of the crowds at the Malvenis Midsummer Games who had cheered him to the echo. He thought of Mellodie, of how her hair had brushed against his shoulder, and of the way she had kissed him on the cheek. He thought of the friendly wine-bars and taverns in the city, and of the strangers who had come up to him in the street and congratulated him on his defeat of Algin Bonecrusher. And then he thought of the sentry who had been the last victim of one of his practical jokes. Somehow that seemed like the work of a different person.
All at once, his mind was made up. Sword in hand, he strode decisively across to the old man.
Koban peered blankly up at him for several seconds, but then, as his rheumy eyes focused on the sword, they seemed to fill with a clear lucidity. His back straightened, his head lifted proudly, and suddenly Mavol could see an echo of the mighty warrior that the old man had once been.
Koban looked from the hovering sword back to Mavol, and his face filled with understanding. Then he nodded with a tired acceptance.
“I am Koban Bloodsword,” he said almost with wonder, as though it was a secret that had been long hidden from him. “Have you come to kill me?”
“No,” answered Mavol, grinning down at him. “I’ve come to guide you home.”
And taking the ancient warrior by the arm, he helped him up and began to lead him slowly down the road that led back to Malvenis.
* Pasaroni is a Behanian garlic sausage which smells rather like the inside of a gladiator’s jockstrap. Unfortunately, it is nothing like as pleasant to chew.
* The Cydorian flocking goat is so named because it is usually found in large groups. As this one was alone, its mates had presumably flocked off and left it.
THE CUNNING PLAN
Anne Gay
Anne Gay (b. 1952) sold her first story in 1982 but only began writing regularly after the success of “Wishbone” in the Gollancz/Sunday Times best sf story competition in 1987. Her novels include Mindsail (1990), The Brooch of Azure Midnight (1991) and the much-acclaimed Dancing on the Volcano (1993). She also wrote the Masked Rider sequence, starting with Escape from Edenoi (1996). The following story was written specially for this anthology.
Sunset painted the tops of the mountains, but on the alpine meadows no goats whatsoever gambolled. Nobody, absolutely nobody, yodelled. Cheerfulness was not allowed.
Crimson light rivered from the sky, seeping like blood into the valley. At the edge of the shadowed village, lights twinkled merrily through diamond-lattice windows. A creaking sign at the front and a stack of empties at the back showed what this place was. As soon as it was full night, dark-cloaked figures began to make their way to the tavern.
Four customers slummocked along close behind. The bright wedge of firelight from the door swallowed them up. Tossing their cloaks over the pegs on the wall, they made their way to their usual table. They sat with an air of cheerful expectancy, watching through the crowd as alleged maidens in black-laced bodices ploughed a path with their ample, up-thrust bosoms.
It was happy hour at the Carpathian Arms.
One such mock-virgin plonked down a tray of tankards for the quartet. Foaming liquid splashed from the steins, staining the table red. Four hands reached eagerly for the scarlet drinks, four sets of pointed eye-teeth plunged into the fluid. Over the rim of their drinks, Sleepless MacBride, Mack the Fang, Long-Tooth McGurky and Kevin the Killer leered at the wench.
Fraulein Liesl smiled nervously.
Then Sleepless MacBride lifted his face from his tankard to glare around in disgust. Without warning, he hurled his glass at the wall. “Bleedin’ Ribena!”
Crash, tinkle, silence. You could have heard a needle drop – except someone would have caught the syringe to suck out the dregs.
But the waitress was indignant. Worse, she owed Sleepless for getting her into trouble. Hadn’t he tripped her up the day before when she was carrying a bun full of raw meat and Emmental? She’d fallen on Long-Tooth and the Fang, covering them in goo and soggy lettuce to the detriment of their tempers and her health. And what had he said? “Big Mack is served with cheese and Gurkl.”
Now everyone was listening, Liesl grinned vindictively. “Is it my fault you emptied the cat?”
The other three vampyres stared at Sleepless. The rest of the throng came to mill threateningly around him.
“So that was you, was it?” hissed Long-Tooth von Gurkl.
A chorus of “You selfish bastard!” followed Gurkl’s refrain.
Never very tall, Sleepless shrank down even further beneath the weight of the Carpathians’ united opprobrium. If it went on for much longer, he felt he might disappear altogether. Licking suddenly paler lips, he babbled, “Er . . . um . . . I, er, thought it would give us more rats’ blood!”
“Berk! Fang had the last rat weeks ago, didn’t you, Fang?”
Next to Sleepless, Mack the Fang leaned forward, shoving his chin out aggressively. He was so muscular he looked like he had whole packs of rodents sliding around under his skin rather than the contents of one scrawny rat in his turn. “So?” he said. “I told you it was an accident. I didn’t know it was the last one, did I?” His eyes slid pugnaciously round the room. Before they could fall off the table, Fang grabbed them and popped them back in.
“Eurgh!” said Liesl. “I wish you wouldn’t do that!”
“Never mind his blasted eyes!” Gurkl grated. “When’s this damned boozer goin’ to get some more blood?”
Other customers called out, “Yeah! Can’t have a boozer with no blood!” “Come down here for a quiet pint and you can’t even get one!” It was bedlam.
Liesl stammered, “I ordered a barrel of type O at the dark of the moon but it hasn’t come yet! And someone—” she stared at Kevin the Killer “—drank my last messenger-bat. There isn’t even a Tampax to make a cup of tea.”
The crowd, always fickle, was turning uglier. She backed up against the wall, her hands protecting her throat. Not that she could have stopped the baying mob of undead who swarmed towards her.
An unholy thud echoed through the room like a coffin-lid falling into place in a crypt. Again, silence. Except Sleepless stage-whispering to Kevin: “Now you’ve done it!” But had he managed to shift the blame?
Toe Knee the barman let the flap drop back onto the counter and stepped through the hatch, the magnet of
everyone’s gaze. Mack had to peep through his fingers to stop his eyeballs wandering off and getting trampled on.
Shuffle, scrape. Shuffle, scrape. The barman came ponderously forward. Patrons melted out of his path, some of them too nervous to put themselves back together again after he had passed. Beneath his bulk the floorboards creaked. Splinters flew as the claws at the end of his thighs raked the wood. Bears had been known to break their teeth on the monstrous muscles of his arms. He had been known to toss horseshoes with the horse still attached, back in the nights when there had still been living creatures in the valley. He had never been known as patient.
Sleepless’s ploy hadn’t worked. The blame stayed firmly where it belonged.
“Oi, you!” Toe Knee stabbed a finger at him. “You’re the one that’s brought us to this! My poor Tibbles! No wonder she stopped chasing her little tinkly ball. So you—” jerking away from the sickle-nailed digit, Sleepless banged his head on the wall “—you’re going to fix it.”
“But— but I can’t bring a cat back to life! I couldn’t even make it come back to death!”
“Just as well, really,” muttered the Fang, “or there’d be blood-sucking badgers, killer cattle and deadly ducks on the loose. Some people just have no standards at all.”
But Toe Knee didn’t see it that way. The barman’s roar reverberated from the peaks high above. A couple of avalanches crushed passing lycanthropes and clouds of vultures flapped across the star-sprinkled sky. “Then get fresh blood!” he bellowed. “Lots of it, you selfish sod! D’you think I don’t know what happened to my drayman?”
“Gluh—” said Sleepless. Actually he was fairly sure Toe Knee didn’t know what had happened to the drayman. If Toe Knee suspected there was a pile of bones under a certain pine-tree in the woods. Sleepless wouldn’t be sitting here now quivering.
“So it’s up to YOU,” the mammoth barman gritted, “to make sure there’s plenty of drink. You wouldn’t want the Carpathian Arms to go down the tube, would you?”
