by John Barnes
Sir John and Sylvia were up by the beast's neck, talking to him, and Sir John was saying something about the Lake of Winter; the Twisted Man was sitting grim and silent beside Amatus, and Psyche and Calliope were tying saddlebags and weapons onto the beast's fur. A band of goblins burst into the square, and the Twisted Man jumped down to dispatch them—or rather, since he had the time, to wound them all mortally so that they could lie about screaming to amuse him.
The beast, still listening to Sir John Slitgizzard, nodded twice, and its rumbling voice said, "That sounds best to me. We will go there at once. I'm sure I've room enough to get into the air from here."
Amatus looked around him, knowing he might be seeing the city for the last time. The Twisted Man was right; there was no way of getting free of his bonds. All around him he could see the rain of balls of corpses, and though there were still many cries of pain and horror, the battle yells, the shots, the clash of steel were beginning to fade—and this could only mean that resistance was slackening. Flame and dark smoke twisted up in broad braids from all over the city.
The fight had gone out of him, at least for the time being. He realized that they needed him if they were to carry the fight on . . . and yet . . . and yet . . . countless friends were doubtless dying or suffering out there.
Cavalry galloped at full speed into the square, Duke Wassant at its head. There was a moment in which the horses reared, and then Wassant saw Sir John and the others; Sir John and the Duke waved in salute, and then the troopers galloped on through and continued on their way.
Amatus wept, for in that wave he understood all of Cedric's plan, and knew that he had seen the Duke for the last time—and with his hand tied together he could not wave good-bye.
A moment later the Twisted Man had scrambled back aboard, and seated himself next to the Prince. "If it will ease you, Highness, you owe this to the Duke; his sacrifice will mean nothing if you do not flee."
"You may untie me," Amatus said, "I give my word I will go with you. As you say, it is owed."
The bonds were undone in an instant. By now the crash of falling buildings was everywhere. The goblins had been thorough; many houses were undermined with tunnels whose timbers were now ablaze. Though it had been a cool spring night, it was now as hot as summer day, and the smoke was growing thick and foul.
"We must go now," Sir John said, and with a nod the beast raced forward and leapt into the air. One instant it felt like being a mouse in a box on the back of a galloping horse; the next, as if the whole great hairy back had shoved up against them and batted them into the air.
The great currents of hot, rising air, which poured upward from every quarter of the city, caught the Riddling Beast's wings, and he rose on them, climbing high above the burning city. Below, they could see the great fires and the fallen-in places, and the citizens being herded together and driven like cattle out onto the plain, captives to whatever might be Waldo's whim.
The city was dying—these were just its last thrashings—and whatever might grow there again, the old city of Wend Street, of the Hektarian and Vulgarian quarters, the city in which Amatus had grown up, was gone now forever. He thought that he ought to weep, but did not; instead, he felt cold steel in his voice as he said, "This will be paid for."
Sir John, Sylvia, and Calliope sat straighter and seemed to take heart. The Twisted Man nodded, once, very deeply, almost a bow. Psyche stretched out on the beast's broad back as if to go to sleep, though she kept a light grip on its fur.
The beast made a great, wide turn, having gained all the height it could from the hot air over the city, and swept north. The encampments of Waldo's army fell away beneath them, and then the blazing cottages and fields in the nearer villages, and finally a couple of burning castles on nearby hills. Then the countryside below began to look quiet and untouched, but it grew wilder and wilder, and fewer and fewer little roads joined the Long River Road.
The night rolled on under the broad wings of the beast, and every so often he would chat with them about what was below. He said that he was not yet tired, but he was not sure he would be able to ascend into the northern mountains while carrying them. "I'll take you as far as I can, but, you know, even though there's a great deal of it, I am only flesh and I do feel your weight. The great question for me is, after I set you down, what's to become of me? I'm sure you won't take offense if I mention that I really don't want anyone going on a quest to slay me . . ."
"Of course no one will! What a horrible idea!" Calliope said, indignantly.
"Nobles are great idiots for hunting," Sylvia said, "but I don't know that they are such great idiots as that."
"Somebody of Waldo's might," Sir John pointed out. "It would, of course, give us all great pleasure to see such people eaten for their pains. But I'm afraid our friend is right. People have a way of either forgetting or of becoming too familiar; somewhere is needed for the beast to go where three or four generations hence—while he will still be a young beast—some local village youths won't go trying for heroics, nor will he be constantly asked to come down and push the swings for the county fair."
"Exactly," the beast said. "There's also the matter of food supply. I trust it will not offend for me to mention that human smells and tastes dreadful; goblin, on the other hand, has a pleasant, rich, chewy quality—"
"There are goblins everywhere, if you know where to look for them and have a good nose," the Twisted Man said. "They are abundant in the mountains north of Iron Lake—after you drop us off, just fly half a day or so to the west."
"Splendid," the Riddling Beast said. "And perhaps, once these irregularities are taken care of, and the King is back on his throne, some system of friendly questing—something that caused favorable but reasonably fearsome tales to be borne back to the city—might be instituted?"
"Of course," Amatus said. "We will send forth our brighter young courtiers to ask your advice about—oh, whatever odd things come to hand, as long as they aren't riddles."
"That would be marvelous," the beast said. "And it can be riddles as long as I don't have to ask them. One of the deep frustrations of my former position was that I am much better at riddles than most of the people who came to me were. It seemed silly for me to always be asking and them to always be guessing."
"Done, then," Amatus said, "The quest for the answer from the Riddling Beast shall be the highest honor in the Kingdom, going only to our most magnificent young courtiers,"
"I don't much care about magnificence, but do try to send bright ones," the beast said, "If I am only to have one conversation or so per year, it would be dreadful to draw a dullard."
"Absolutely," Amatus assured him. "But are those the Northern Mountains looming on the horizon?"
"They are indeed, and just in time," Sir John said. "The sun will be up soon, and whatever we may feel, we must all have rest, and I should prefer, given that we will be pursued by the undead and by goblins, to sleep outside in the bright sun."
Now the rest of the journey was almost too swift, for the sun rose as they descended, leaving the Great North Woods behind to their left and moving in among the mountains north of them whence the Long River flowed. The mountain peaks burned a brilliant white against the sky, the slopes below rolling from pale greens to almost blue-black, and they found themselves in the middle of the sky in as fine a dawn as ever happened in the mountains that towered around them. The beast flew straight on into the rising valley, looking for the highest point along the Long River at which he might set them down safely, for it was still a long journey to the Lake of Winter, where Sir John had been told to guide the Prince.
The beast ended up doubling back, for the last few miles were unfortunately thickly forested and there was no good place to set down between the cliffs; though they were sorry for his extra trouble, they were glad for the chance to fly more, for now that they were used to it and had come to trust the beast, they were fascinated with flying and loved the look of the land from up here, and they knew that this wa
s, in all probability, the last time they would do it.
At last, with a soft flump of his leathery wings, the beast settled onto a mountain meadow, and they climbed down. Each of them, even the Twisted Man, scratched the beast thoroughly on the nose and rubbed his ears, and the beast himself seemed a little sorry to lose their company. He made the Prince promise especially that when the Kingdom was restored, there would be questers coming to talk to him, and he also offered any other help that they found he could provide later—"though since I shall be far up in the mountains I am afraid you would be a long time in summoning me." Then with a last nod of farewell, he leapt into the air again, and they waved until he was merely a dark dot in the sky.
"And now, like it or not, we all must sleep through a good part of the day," Sir John said. He had seen enough signs of exhaustion in Amatus, Sylvia, Calliope, and himself to be sure it was necessary.
"I will stand guard, then," the Twisted Man said.
"First guard," Sir John corrected, "We all must rest."
"I will not grow tired."
Sir John might have argued, but the figure of the Twisted Man, swaddled as always in a dozen wraps, capes, and cloaks, clanking with weaponry, standing there in the bright, clear air of a mountain morning, caused the words to die in his throat. "Very well," Slitgizzard said, "I rely on you to tell us what you must do to remain fit to fight, and to do it."
"Thank you," the Twisted Man said. And he sat down on the grass of the little rise above them, as comfortably as if he might be planning to watch birds and butterflies all day. Psyche quietly sat beside him, and though Amatus thought he ought to protest, and Calliope and Sylvia wanted to volunteer for another shift, Sir John hushed them as if they had been three children, and watched them fall asleep before he stretched out himself. He had just a moment to glance up at the hill and see Psyche leaning against the Twisted Man's shoulder before he fell into a sound sleep.
When he woke, it was midafternoon, and the Twisted Man still sat up there, still as a statue, just as if he had not moved in all that time—except that there was a garland of dandelions around his neck. Slitgizzard swallowed a smile and looked to see Psyche gathering more dandelions nearby; he sat up and saw the butterflies that filled the meadow. The warm sun struck his back where the grass had made it damp, and he sighed, a little wave of contentment washing over him, before he recalled that the King was almost surely dead, and the Duke and Cedric with him, and that everything that remained of the Kingdom was within the scope of his eyes, for he had no doubt the isolated garrisons, if they had not already fallen, would fall as soon as Waldo's attention turned their way.
He rose to his feet. A silent groan in his lower back and legs reminded him that, though strong and fast as ever, he was no longer quite the young adventurer he had been.
Psyche waved to him merrily. The Twisted Man stood, and came down the hill to them. "It has been quiet," the Twisted Man said, "peaceful and pleasant. If you think there has been rest enough, it would be wise to be moving."
Psyche looped a garland of dandelions over Sir John's neck, and smiled at him. "You feel it, too, then. This meadow is a good place."
"It is," Sir John said, "but not the place where we ought to stop. We cannot hope that our flight was completely undetected by hostile eyes, and even if it were, we must assume that a column of troops will be headed up the Long River Road to take possession of these territories. By then we must be beyond the narrow passages above us—preferably beyond several of them, and all the way to the Lake of Winter."
The Twisted Man nodded; he seemed even more quiet than usual. Psyche dropped another garland over the Twisted Man's head, and beamed at him. "Just twenty or thirty more, sir, and you might pass for a gentleman."
The Twisted Man spoke softly. "I appreciate your words, most of all because I know they are not true."
Sir John Slitgizzard was not subtle, nor clever, and knowing this he was about to ask what that particular riddle meant, when Amatus, Calliope, and Sylvia sat up. This meant that the whole conversation about the beauty of the meadow and the need nevertheless to get moving had to be repeated again with six people instead of three, and so it took even longer.
At the end of it, Sir John had another thought, for his own stomach was beginning to rumble. "I brought along some biscuit and dried meat in the wallet of my triolet; it's enough for everyone to have a bite before we start—"
"I did the same," Amatus said, "so we've two meals, though scant ones—"
"Well," Psyche said, "while you were sleeping, I found a few large bushes of berries, and some arrowroot and Queen Anne's lace, so we can stretch that food a bit—"
The Twisted Man nodded. "And as it happened, I had a bag of spare rations on my saddle, which I brought with me, so we've plenty. You are right, Sir John, we might as well eat—though we ought to do it quickly, for there is ground to cover and pursuit to evade."
They gobbled down handfuls of berries from the bushes Psyche showed them, and made that the better part of a meal, with a few biscuits and the roots that she had found for them to fill it out. It took little time, but still the sun was farther down when they set out upstream along the Long River, now not much more than a deep, fast mountain brook. The road here was nothing you would want to take a tumulus over, and they had to watch their footing, but still it was not dreadfully hard, and they made reasonable progress as the road bent down into the dark green gloom of the mountain forest. Emerging from that small valley, the road took them up and up, through the last thick parts of the broad-leaved forest and on into the heavy pines and firs. Now the air smelled sweeter and the heavy scent made them all move a bit quicker, for in it there was the damp and cold that promised night soon.
"The gloom here is appalling," Sir John commented, "and from the look of things we have much uphill in front of us. I wish that we had at least gone through the first of the narrow passes by now."
Amatus grunted. "I wish that wishes were indeed horses, and that therefore, being beggars, we could ride."
The road dwindled to barely a track, with crushed needles lying thick in its ruts, and still they went on. The soft decaying needles at first felt good under their tired and sore feet, but they slipped and gave way, and thus their legs had to work the harder for it, so that after a while they were tired and sore from climbing the slippery slope. Meanwhile the sun continued to sink in the west, and though the occasional tree that stuck up into the sunlight shone with fierce color, the shadows in which they toiled became almost as dark as night itself, so that they saw each other only in silhouettes against the brilliant amber light. They were beginning to stumble with tiredness, and Sir John ordered a halt so that everyone might eat a little more biscuit and a strip of dried gazebo, but this helped only a little and it was an effort to get started again.
Luckily the moon was waxing, so they would have a bit more of it tonight and it would rise earlier, but still there was the danger that they might find themselves groping along the road by only the light of the first bright stars . . . and if the enemy indeed knew where they were, they might be set upon by vampires or other things that flew—
Up ahead, Sylvia gave a glad cry and rushed ahead. They all hurried to follow.
The road bent down again, at last, and into a narrow, steep-walled defile filled with trees. It was the first of the passes, and just at the point where it bent out of sight, a rickety wooden bridge spanned the roaring gorge. The last of the evening sunlight was just bouncing off the far wall.
"Let's hurry—I know this place well," Sir John Slitgizzard said, "and once we are across the bridge, we will find a fine place to camp for the night, with clean water and very likely something we can do for food."
They all rushed down the road at a great clip, not quite running, but savoring the pleasure of being able to see far into the distance again, and Sir John pointed out some of the more prominent peaks and peaked promontories. It might almost have been a picnic that they were going to, now.
Then Calliope happened to look back, and gave a shout, for a band of men was bursting from the forest from which they had come, all armed, and plainly not friendly. They all ran as hard as they could, and matters did not seem hopeless, for even one man might easily hold the bridge, or Sir John keep them back with his deadly pismire—
They flung themselves around the last bend, and Psyche, Calliope, and Sylvia shot across the bridge, hair streaming behind them, like three mad spirits in a story. Close behind, Amatus and Slitgizzard pounded over the swaying structure, leapt to the side as soon as they were over, and drew pismires.
Before their eyes, the bridge collapsed, fell into the gorge, and was swept away.
They looked up in shock to see that the Twisted Man had taken it down with two strokes of his double-bladed ax, and now awaited the foe, his omnibus on his shoulder.
"Run, fools!" he bellowed to them. "Run or I die for nothing!"
For a long second they stared; the band of men coming from the forest, now, was not two dozen as it had appeared, but at least twice that number. Moreover, as the sun began to sink there were squeals and chatters that suggested goblins were eagerly waiting for the dark.
"He is right," Sir John Slitgizzard whispered, though he felt his stomach sink within him.
"May you find whatever it is you have sought," Amatus shouted to the Twisted Man, who raised his right arm in salute, then turned to face the foe.
Amatus and Sir John Slitgizzard ran, and behind them they heard the bark of the Twisted Man's omnibus, as the first of the enemy fell before it.
Now, as for what happened next, it is purely conjecture, but it is the conjecture of several of the fine woods trackers that were in Deacon Dick Thunder's band, and so though we cannot be absolutely sure it is true, we can be sure it is not absolutely false. This is what must have happened, and if not this, then something like this:
The Twisted Man had always been a deadly shot, and since he had his omnibus and two braces of pismires, the seven shots Sir John heard would account for the seven of the foe who were found shot. Then the Twisted Man must have drawn his escree with his right hand, and his double-edged ax with his left, and then fought on like that. He had slain seven men in their first rush, all with balls planted neatly between their eyes, so they would have advanced cautiously. Besides they were supposed to take the fugitives alive.
