The lord had developed a pattern of irresponsible behavior that could have been his undoing. His saving graces were twofold: He knew how to surround himself with very capable advisors and assistants, and he had a charming personality and a gift for leadership.
Devareaux offered some very useful advice as well. He told me the places to look for Lord Rothchild at different times of the day if he wasn't where he was supposed to be. They were, of course, by no means certain, but hopefully they would be a template I could use to avoid future tests of my jousting skills.
Finally, he turned to go. When he reached the door he said one last thing. "You're an ambitious young lad. You could do well for yourself in this court. "
After my brief period of recuperation, I once again resumed my duties. My hands were full with Lord Rothchild's social and diplomatic calendars, and in addition, he was scheduled to speak to the people in a fortnight.
When the time came, I attended the event, which was rife with ceremony. He stood up to speak from his balcony, looking every bit like a man in his element. His voice boomed across the crowd, and it swayed like a cobra to his seductive thrall.
"The might of Kjeldor shall echo in Balduvian halls. It shall blow across the frozen forests of Fyndhorn like a blizzard. It shall lurk in the darkness, wrapping itself around the throat of the cowardly Lim-Dul. The foes of Kjeldor will scatter like chaff on the wind before our invincible armies.
"In a symbolic gesture of Kjeldor's greatness, on the morrow I shall venture alone into the heart of the forest to slay the vile scaled wurm Rhindle. Its head will grace the town square for all to see, an icon of Kjeldoran pride."
The throng went wild.
"Is there no limit to his greatness?" they murmured. "Kjeldor is truly the mightiest nation Terisiare has ever seen."
After the speech, my apprehension grew. So far, Lord Rothchild didn't seem to have a very good track record of correspondence between word and deed-and I was the one who had to live up to his promises.
My spirits were somewhat assuaged when I accompanied him to practice his fighting skills later in the day.
"How will you kill the creature, Your Majesty?" I asked as we rode to the training grounds.
"Through cunning and guile," he answered. "It will take a minimum of well-placed blows to fell the beast."
Perhaps you can pacify him with cackleberry gin, I wanted to say.
"You worry too much, Finroy. I think it's because you don't drink enough. Or perhaps I should send a girl to your quarters to ease your mind."
"I was only trying to be practical, Sire."
After securing our horses, we assembled on the grounds with some of the finest warriors in the land. Each demonstrated his or her technique to Lord Rothchild while I held the weapons.
The first lesson was in swordsmanship. Straw targets were placed at intervals around the course, and Lord Rothchild was required to demonstrate the abilities he'd learned on each one. He stepped like a dancer across the practice field and with a graceful pirouette plunged the sword into the straw effigies. His maneuvers were bold reinterpretations that bore little resemblance to the originals. Although he rarely missed the stationary targets, I wasn't sure how this would help him kill the creature. I was confident only that Lord Rothchild could expertly slay straw mannequins.
The next phase of his training was archery. The archery master suggested felling the beast with a poison arrow. Lord Rothchild seemed to like the idea but was unable to master the intricacies of archery. Arrows flew hither and thither, but none found their mark. One came dangerously close to hitting the master, and Lord Rothchild called a hasty end to the lesson.
I spent the rest of the day watching him wrestle with pikes and halberds, axes and slings. In the end I'm not sure that any real progress was made, but Lord Rothchild seemed very proud of himself, so of course we all congratulated him.
"I shall cleave the beast's skull with one blow from this mighty axe!" shouted Lord Rothchild, as he raised the weapon above his head and wohbled, slightly off balance.
"Oh, woe to the foes of Kjeldor," I responded nervously.
We packed our belongings into the saddlebags and left the training field. Lord Rothchild told me he was eager to square off against the creature and asked me to bring a bottle of wine and meet him the next morning by the fountain in Rothchild Park. My appetite was gone, and I got no sleep that night.
When morning came, I dressed smartly and headed to the park to see Lord Rothchild off on the glorious hunt. I stopped to buy the wine from Jorgensen, the stuttering priest, and was well on my way by the time the sun had risen. I arrived a half hour early and waited impatiently.
I could not help but think of the glory this deed would bring to Kjeldor and how the Balduvians would tremble when they heard. Then again, there was an outcome I hadn't considered. Lord Rothchild might be eaten by the scaled wurm, and the Balduvians might descend on the weakened kingdom, reducing all of Kjeldor to a smoking ruin. I tried not to dwell on that possibility.
The sun crept higher and higher into the sky, and still Lord Rothchild did not appear. I thought he probably wanted to be off and had taken an early start. I wanted to be sure, though, so after two hours I headed back to the palace to find him.
Wandering the palace grounds, I asked those I met if they'd seen Lord Rothchild. The gardener hadn't seen him. Neither had the maid. I could hear Lady Rothchild conducting her own search for him in a shrill voice.
I searched the archery range, the kitchen, the sitting room, and even the brothel, all to no avail. I made a quick check of the stables to see if Lord Rothchild had taken his horse. I opened the door and stepped inside, where I was greeted with a most disturbing sight.
Blood rushed to my head, and my knees weakened. The only thing I could hear was my heartbeat-loud in my ears. My worst fears were confirmed: Lord Rothchild lay on the floor, snoring loudly, empty bottles strewn about him. There were pieces of straw in his ruffled hair, his shoes were missing, and his pants were on backward. The place reeked of alcohol, and I started to feel light-headed.
I realized that if Rhindle's head failed to appear in the town square by the next morning, Devareaux might put my head on display instead.
Without thinking I ran to the armory, where Lord Rothchild's sword and armor sat sparkling in the dim torchlight. I snatched the sword and bolted outside, my senses blind to the world as I made my way through the narrow streets toward Fyndhorn Forest.
I plunged into the forest, recklessly zigzagging through the trees. The sky was overcast, and the green needles of the conifers and the deep brown leaves of the deciduous trees glowed in muted light. On any other day it would have been a beautiful sight, but today my world was dark, and the only sounds were the leaves crunching under my feet and the pounding of blood in my temples.
For hours I roamed the woods, alternately running and walking. I was prepared to throw myself at the beast, if only it would show itself.
After a while, I stopped to assess my situation. Alternate plans leaped into my head. I would kill the wurm and sever its head. I'd sneak back after dark and smuggle the head into town while everyone was asleep.
I was not trained as a warrior; my one chance was to catch Rhindle sleeping. First I had to locate its lair. Something as big as a scaled wurm would have a hard time finding a place to hide.
But I soon discovered Fyndhorn Forest was a big place.
I searched for places I thought the creature might hide. It would have to be a big pile of leaves or a cave. I came upon no caves. There were dead trees and rocks, but no scaled wurms lurked behind them. I walked around in a daze, fueled only by hope. Hope for what, I wasn't sure. Did I really want to find this creature?
Reality began to overtake me. I could not find the creature, much less slay it. My vision blurred, and hot tears streamed down my face. Frustrated, I dropped the sword and collapsed amongst the leaves. The cold numbed my hands, but I didn't care anymore. I wished the icy chill would overcome me
and rid me of my troubles. I lay there not moving, as the wind whipped about me. I wondered how I had managed to get myself into such a hopeless situation. I bemoaned my fate, cursing the gods and my foolishness.
I don't know how long I lay among the leaves, but it soon became apparent to me that the cold was not going to kill me, and I was going to have to face my plight. I arose and picked up the sword, barely able to hold it in my frozen fingers.
Dark shadows had begun to engulf the forest, and a light snow started to fall. Strange sounds echoed about me, like a call to dinner for all the creatures of the woods. I realized that I too had a ferocious hunger-I had not eaten since the previous day.
Without light my chances of killing Rhindle were nil, and my chances of getting killed were almost certain. I hurried back in the direction of town.
I'd never been this deep in the woods before. The cold air stung my lungs, and my chest ached where the lance of Sir Udo had injured me. The trees seemed to take on leathery skin and reach out to touch me. Every mound of moss began to look like the scaled wurm.
Everything started to look the same in the fading light, and an endless parade of trees streamed by me. I maintained my focus and continued toward home.
I made it back relatively quickly. To be accurate, I tore up the miles like a wild buffalo. Soon I could feel the warm embrace of Jornstad and see the dwellings in the distance.
As I reached the edge of town and walked past some of the outlying homes, I hung my head. My body was weak, and my joints ached. I was disgraced and beaten. I'd failed Lord Rothchild and perhaps set the stage for the downfall of Kjeldor.
A great crashing noise from behind jarred me from my thoughts. I heard a terrible splintering and ripping of wood and foliage. It was as though a hundred bolts of lightning had struck the same spot in the same instant.
I spun around to see a medium-sized tree reduced to kindling. Above the debris towered the wicked Rhindle, even more impressive in reality than he had been in all my nightmares. His head was sleek and dragonlike, and his blue scales glistened in the gently falling snow. The massive creature's eyes were pinpoints of fiery orange and spoke volumes about his ferocity. He looked me right in the eye.
The hunter had become the hunted. I dropped the sword and took an instinctive step backward. The beast opened his huge jaws and let loose a roar that shook the firmament. His tail whipped toward me, advancing like a snake tearing through the underbrush and so enormous that it took two full seconds to reach the spot where I stood.
It struck my leg, shattering my right thigh and lifting me off my feet in a short and painful flight. My fall was broken by a dense thicket. Thorns tore at my skin as I hurriedly tried to crawl to safety.
Turning toward the village, I beheld a welcome sight. Alerted by the noise, townsfolk were pouring into the streets, rushing to my aid. Some had swords and bows, but most bore the tools of their trade or whatever else they could turn into a weapon. There were barbers armed with razors, carpenters with shovels, and hunters with harpoons. Some men had picks and shovels, women brought rakes and torches, and all advanced with a fearless determination.
I turned back to regard the beast. I'd put some distance between us, and the creature hadn't moved from the spot where it struck me. It didn't need to. Its long neck extended. The huge jaws descended, and I could feel the creature's hot breath.
One of the townsfolk hurled a short length of firewood at Rhindle, striking it on the nose. The beast instantly closed its mouth and recoiled with a look of incredulity. The log could not possibly have done any damage to such a massive creature, but the beast was stunned that tiny prey such as this would dare to fight back.
Taking advantage of the creature's hesitation, the villagers surrounded the wurm. With each passing moment more people rushed to the scene to help. Town guardsmen fired arrows into the wurm's thick hide. One woman tried to throw salt into its eyes. Children threw stones from a distance.
The creature was confused. Like a spider being swarmed by a thousand ants, there was nothing it could do. It advanced a few yards in one direction, stopped and changed course. The villagers fought more bravely than any well-trained army-they fought like a people defending their home.
The wurm thrashed about, spending more time defending itself than it did advancing on the town. The makeshift battalion continued its frenzied assault until the wurm finally gave up. The creature turned and tore off into the woods, knocking down trees and turning over large rocks in its path.
The brave citizens looked at one another in quiet disbelief. None would have dared believe they could defeat a creature so dangerous. Yet by standing together they'd accomplished what none could do individually.
Some were overcome by relief and awe. Others moved quickly to tend to the injured, who-along with myself-were taken to the healer. Miraculously, no one was killed.
That night a celebration began that lasted five days. Wine flowed freely, and songs were sung to the glory of Kjeldor. Poets composed epic poems commemorating the event. Artisans carved statues and painted life sized frescoes.
The people of Jornstad marveled at the wisdom of Lord Rothchild, who, through confrontation with the wurm, had taught them how to trust in themselves. He was hailed as the hero of the day.
Green
Green is the balance between extremes. Those who favor green are solid people with easy manners. They aren't impulsive, as are those who favor red, or withdrawn like those who favor blue. Those associated with green are socially well-adjusted and organic. They are conventional, yet constantly on the go, and have a taste for the good things in life. Green has, on occasion, been associated with jealousy or inexperience, but those who have a broader understanding know that green is natural, fresh, wise, and comforting, and those characterized by it show a sensitivity to social customs and etiquette. Green provides abundance and resources. It is passive and combative at the same time, and calls to those who want to be grounded in their natural surroundings.
Versipellis
Paul B. Thompson
(Circa 4000AR)
Steel rang on steel in the crisp twilight. After a brief struggle, two men flew apart, one making futile slashes at the other. The desperate man was soaked to the skin with sweat. A long, shallow cut, more painful than dangerous, crossed his chest from left shoulder to right ribcage. Blood stained his homespun shirt.
His opponent was unharmed. Elegantly dressed and with not a hair out of place, young Joren stood out of reach, casually resting his blade on his shoulder.
"Had enough, Edgur?" he asked.
The wounded man pressed a hand to his bleeding chest. The sight of his own blood inflamed his anger past the point of sanity. With a howl of rage, Edgur charged Joren, sword outthrust. Joren turned aside on one heel, sending his foe plunging headlong into the tall grass outside the clearing. Edgur stumbled, losing his sword when the tip dug into the earth and tore from his grasp. He outran his own feet and fell facedown in the weeds.
No one laughed. Edgur's seconds hurried to their friend's side. Joren's cronies brought him a cup of wine.
"Are you satisfied?" Joren called out as Edgur was hoisted to his feet.
The latter's response was to begin searching the high grass for his lost sword. When his friends stood idly by watching him, Edgur snarled, "Don't just stand there- help me find it!"
His guild friend Artulle folded his arms and said, "No, Edgur. You've had enough. There's no point in going on."
"I'll decide when I've had enough!"
"He's right, you know." Joren tossed his slim rapier to his manservant. "There's no reason to fight on."
"I am the injured party!"
Joren strode over and seized Edgur by his bloody shirt-front. "And I'm the better man," he said coldly. "I should think that would be painfully obvious by now, even to a blockhead like you. Stay away from me Edgur, and stay away from Riliana. If you don't, next time you won't just need a new shirt-you'll need a shroud!"
Joren, his f
riends, and his servants returned to their waiting carriages. As they whirled away amid the crack of whips and rumble of hooves, Edgur slowly sank to his knees. Defeated. Disgraced. His life was over.
Artulle and Meckie waited for him join them. The hired wagon was costing them a half-korl an hour, money they couldn't spare.
At last Meckie said, "We're leaving, Edgur. Are you coming?"
Slumped on his knees in the grass, Edgur said nothing. Meckie frowned and started to admonish his friend, but Artulle took him by the arm and steered him to the waiting wagon.
"Let him be," Artulle said. "He can walk back to town. Argivia isn't far."
The hired draymaster snapped his reins, and the wagon lurched away. Edgur slid sideways off his haunches and wept bitter tears, not only for losing the duel so ignominiously but for losing Riliana, the love of his life.
The last red rays of the sun died a silent death behind the western hills. A light breeze kicked up, scattering the pale clouds and revealing the night's first wash of stars.
Sword thrust through his belt (he'd lost the scabbard somewhere in the meadow where the duel was fought), Edgur trudged dolefully along the dusty road to Argivia. He had no idea how long he'd lingered alone in the field, weeping quietly over the injustices of his life. At length he mastered his melancholia and found his lost sword. He'd paid good money to Embric the ironmonger for the sword, and he wasn't about to leave it behind.
It was a windy night, and the grass on either side of the road sighed continuously as the wind moved through it. There was no light except the stars, but the sandy road was white enough for him to follow easily. Edgur's sweaty clothes soon chilled him, so he slung on his journeyman's jacket and stuffed his hands in his pockets. The cut on his chest stung like a shirtful of bees.
Ahead the road forked, one lane curving off to the right, which was south, another lane curving to the left through a copse of trees, to the east. Edgur slowed. Which way would take him back to Argivia? He didn't remember passing a fork like this on his way out, but then he was preoccupied on the outbound journey with visions of his hated rival impaled on his blade.
The Colors of Magic Anthology (magic: the gathering) Page 6
