The Age of Heroes

by Scott J Robinson

  “In the hallway.”

  Rawk drew Kult and entered the house. The first room was the kitchen. There were dirty dishes everywhere and a pile of clothes in the corner. It smelled like something had died there. Probably food poisoning, Rawk thought. He wiped his hand again.

  There was a chair in the hallway and the open hatchway above. So he climbed on the chair then stepped up again to balance precariously on the back. Once his sword was up in the ceiling space he paused to listen.

  The demon still wailed. The sound wasn’t any more pleasant from inside. In fact, it was worse. Rawk swore again and pulled himself up to wiggle and squirm into the roof cavity. His arm hurt, but he was too busy looking around to take much notice, If something was going to attack, now would be the worst possible time for that to happen. He got his feet under him and crouched in the dusty space. There was enough space to stand under the peak of the roof but a step to either side and he would hit his head.

  “Wonderful. Barely room to swing a sword.” Not that he was sure a sword would be any use. “What in Path’s name am I doing here?” Once more he’d let the crowd talk him into doing something he didn’t want to do. It was too late now. He stepped carefully from ceiling joist to ceiling joist. The wailing increased as he approached. The sound echoed around the ceiling space, but a pile of junk at the far end that was the only possible hiding place...

  Rawk paused and took a deep breath. It didn’t calm him down at all. He wanted to wipe the sweat from his hand again but didn’t dare.

  “I hate demons.” But when he thought about that, it was just silly. He didn’t believe in demons. Not in the religious creatures from hell, anyway. He didn’t believe in Path, and he didn’t believe in hell. So if this was a demon it was just another exot. Like the hundreds of others he’d killed in his life. Just an exot.

  He started moving again, quicker this time, before he came up with a counter argument.

  And two yards from the junk, he paused again. The noise paused too, but only for a moment. When it started again it sounded worse than before. Rawk shifted his grip on Kult. He licked his lips. He cleared his throat. He shifted his grip.

  “Damn it.”

  Whatever it was making the noise was only small. A foot high at most. How dangerous could it be? As dangerous as a gabalo, perhaps. Or a cornered weasel. He stepped forward one more joist and reached out with the tip of his sword. He pushed at a timber box. It clattered down from the top of the pile. The wailing paused. For a moment. Then it started again. Rawk picked up a dirty, rotten cloth on the tip of Kult and flung it away. He slid a hatbox out of the way.

  Movement. There was a screech worse than all those that had come before, as if whoever made it was having its soul rung out by two very angry jesips. A plant pot tumbled to the floor of its own accord.

  Rawk squinted into the shadows. He leaned closer. He gave a grunt of laughter and, lowering his sword, stepped forward. The cat, barely more than a kitten stopped its bawling and looked at him with fearful eyes. Rawk picked up the full bag that it was trapped beneath and grabbed it by the scruff of the neck before it could escape.

  The creature squirmed and wrestled in his grip, trying to escape, trying to scratch him, until he stood his sword against the gable and petted it. A moment later it had calmed and purred in his arms.

  It was mangy and dirty, and smelled, but it was doubtful it had ever been near any type of hell, unless it had been across the other side of the river. “Demon,” Rawk said, shaking his head. He pulled out some of his dried snack meat and it disappeared in an instant.

  A minute later, Rawk was halfway back to the access panel, the kitten quiet and content for the moment, when he had an idea. He made his way over to the open window and set the kitten down nearby. “Stay there.”

  It looked at him strangely.

  “Seriously, wait there.”

  Putting his sword down again, Rawk took a deep breath... and screamed. He threw himself towards the window, banging the casement open and hanging half onto the roof. He scrabbled at the tiles. He screamed some more as he pretended he was being dragged back inside.

  The crowd screamed with him. They stepped back, staring up in horror. Some of them ran, sprinting away down the street. Rawk managed to contain his laughter as he was ‘pulled’ inside. He stopped screaming a moment later as he collected the kitten and went back to the window. He stuck his head out into the open and thrust the animal out in front of him.

  “It was a cat you idiots.” He dropped it onto the roof and it clattered away across the tiles, heading for the building next door. It disappeared into a hole in the wall. “A cat was trapped under a pile of junk.” Rawk wanted to say more. He wanted to tell them to think. But he’d been telling people things for years and none of them had ever listened. Don’t throw money. Don’t throw walnuts. Don’t ask for my blessing. They never listened. They never stopped to think about things first.

  They were like a bunch of children. The whole city. They never grew up.

  Rawk sheathed Kult and lowered himself back down into the house. He sat on the chair and rubbed at his face as he realized what he’d done. Firstly, he’d sent half the crowd fleeing into the city. By now there would be a dozen rumors spreading through Katamood. It was unlikely any of them would paint him favorably. And secondly, he’d called those who’d stayed behind ‘idiots’. Those people may not paint him favorably either.

  The owner of the house disturbed his thoughts, and Rawk realized he didn’t care what the man thought. Not now. Not today. He still hadn’t helped an old lady cross the street, but he’d rescued a kitten. He wasn’t sure which was worse. He rose to his feet. “I would appreciate it if you would make a donation, a donation of money, to the Brothers of Granda.”

  “But—”

  “I am not here to solve every one of your tiny little problems.” And he left the house. He pushed through the crowd and headed for home.

  Tewsday

  Rawk examined the staff. “Is it supposed to be crooked like that?” he asked, taking his last bite of breakfast.

  Travis shrugged. “I like it.”

  “Yes, but...”

  “Look, if you want a straight, soulless piece of wood, go find one yourself. There are plenty of Mindormen down in the market who can make stuff like that. This one was taken from Richnar forest by a dwarf.”

  “A dwarf?”

  “Yes, a dwarf. Does it feel good in your hand?”

  Rawk hefted it. It did feel good. It looked like a natural piece of wood, polished and varnished, but with knobs and whorls and kinks all left how they were. Despite that, there were several places where his hand fitted perfectly, as if the timber molded to fit. And the weight, no matter where he held it, was comfortable, perfect in one way or another. He gave a reluctant nod.

  “Right,” Travis said. “I don’t like dwarves either. They’re loud and obnoxious, but when they want, they know how to do things properly.”

  “Maybe.” But he had been thinking the exact same thing a couple of days earlier.

  “Look, just forget that I mentioned dwarves. My grandmother made it, all right.”

  “I thought your grandmother was dead.”

  “I didn’t say she made it yesterday.”

  Rawk ran his finger along the grain of the dark timber. “All right, I’ll keep it. Just because I don’t want to insult the memory of your grandmother. And, also, I don’t have time to go and get another one.”

  “There’s an old broom downstairs somewhere. I can break the head of that if you like and you can use the handle.”

  “Maybe you should go and do some work instead.”

  Travis started to leave, but turned in the doorway. “So, why are you doing this again?”

  Rawk sighed. “Because it’s what I do. I don’t know anything else.”

  “Are you sure you still know this?” He stayed where he was for a moment, then was gone.

  Rawk laid the staff on the bed so he could sling his bag over
his shoulder. He checked all the pouches on his belt were secure, slipped Kult into the half scabbard, then took up the staff again and followed after Travis.

  “Ho, Rawk,” Natan said, coming up the other way. “Off on an adventure?”

  Rawk put on his Hero face and gave a bark of laughter. “Life is an adventure, Natan. The city may be at risk, and someone has to protect it.” He’d never realized that he had a Hero face.

  “That troll? Do you think there are more of them?”

  “I don’t know. But I intend to find out.”

  “Well, good luck. All the luck in the world, for I don’t want any trolls disturbing my breakfast.”

  Rawk hurried the rest of the way down the stairs and headed towards the back door. Out in the ostler’s yard, a plain, well-used coach was standing in wait. Horses stamped while men unloaded chests and luggage. Someone staying for a while. Rawk smiled as he slipped out onto the street.

  He retraced his steps to Sparrow Tower, trying to ignore the crowd that gathered behind him. Sometimes people called out, asking what he was doing, but most of the time they talked among themselves, speculating as if he wasn’t even there. Someone asked him how he had escaped the demon. He didn’t reply.

  In the mouth of the same alley he’d used the other day, Rawk paused and looked back.

  “Thanks you for accompanying me this far,” he said, “but this alley isn’t big enough for all of us.”

  The crowd laughed. They’d laugh if he told them about his laundry if they thought it was supposed to be a joke.

  “I doubt there will be any spectacle today. I am venturing into the Old Forest to see if there are any more of the trolls. I don’t expect to find any, but I want to check, just in case. You are safe, so please, go about your business.”

  The crowd cheered and half of them followed when he continued on. He suspected the other half were heading for the remains of the wall around Sparrow Tower. The rumors would be spreading through Katamood before the breakfast crowd started to build in the Hero’s Rest. Rawk was off to save the city again. And the demon hadn’t killed him after all.

  He paused under the trees a few minutes later, standing in the spot where he had first encountered the troll. The heaviness was upon him again. The ancient watching, like an old owl up in the rafters of a barn.

  “What in Path’s name am I doing here,” he muttered to the owl, wherever it was. The ‘good old days’ were back and he was about to walk blindly into the forest to prove it. What would he have done thirty years ago? First of all, he wouldn’t have paused to think.

  With a sigh he examined the ground where the fight had started. Squinting, he got down low so his eyes didn’t hurt. Everything was a mess there so he widened his search, concentrating to the west and north. But he wasn’t a tracker. He wasn’t a woodsman. Most of the creatures he killed in the past had come to him. That was the point. If they wanted to be left alone then they never came to his attention in the first place. He searched for half an hour and didn’t find any evidence that a huge troll had ever passed by, but he did see what looked like the faint remains of a game trail. That seemed as good a place to start as anywhere else. So he struck deeper into the forest, swatting at the encroaching undergrowth with his staff. Thirty yards in he found a green ribbon caught on a briar thorn.

  “Damn.” Rawk realized he’d been hoping that he wouldn’t find anything. Then he could have turned around and headed home, safe in the knowledge that Hawk Squad wouldn’t steal his thunder. Taking the ribbon from the thorn, he tucked it into his pocket and continued forward.

  Every step he took, the forest seemed to close in around him. Each tree was thicker than the one before. They were probably taller as well but it was hard to tell through the thick canopy. The light was tinged green but still plentiful. The calls of the animals were muted, but they were plentiful as well.

  A minute later, the trail led into the remains of a building. The walls were knee height, the chimney higher. It was a large place, with several rooms and a hollow, depressed area that might once have been a cellar.

  Then out through a doorway on the other side and he found himself in the true remains of the city. Buildings, some complete but for the roof, others barely more than a shin high bump, lined either side of dense streets of greenery. There was a well, filled with purple flowers, at an intersection. The blooms overflowed onto the roadway and halfway to one of the buildings. The trail wandered past the other side, skirting over the roots of two huge oak trees, and Rawk didn’t see that he had any choice but to follow.

  First, he sat with his back against the well, Kult laid across his lap, and pulled his bag from beneath his cloak. Inside was a water skin, fruit and a heel of bread. The bread had started to dry out anyway, so he chewed on that first while he sat and rested. After a drink, he thought of eating something else, but he was stalling and knew he should get on with the task at hand.

  When he was walking again, following the trail, his sword was back by his side and his staff gripped tightly in his hand. He swatted branches aside with the staff and moved carefully. The trail followed the same street for more than a mile, then turned to the right. Then left at the street after that and deeper into the forest.

  Weaver had once shown Rawk a thing called a line graph. It had charted the flow of ships into Katamood over the seasons. The buildings on either side of the street showed the rise and fall of civilizations. It showed man’s battle with nature. Nature was winning.

  When he had walked for another half an hour, Rawk started to relax. He’d seen a fox, several deer and a handful of rabbits, as well as the usual assortment of birds, but nothing that looked even remotely like a ten-foot tall troll. The city still surrounded him. The walls were still beside him, tall or short, whole or barely there at all, but the streets were wider, the trees were larger and the animals more numerous.

  And the arrows were larger. Rawk examined the long white shaft that was stuck in the tree beside him. It was as long as his arm. The fletching was as red as blood. The arrow was still quivering.

  “Path.” Rawk threw himself to the side as another arrow whistled past. It entered the undergrowth, tearing into the bushes, clattering against a rock.

  For a moment, Rawk stayed where he was. He was hidden, but that wouldn’t help much if his attacker came looking for him. He grabbed his staff, rearranged his sword and crawled towards remains of the nearest building. At the wall he stopped and stuck his head up above the sea of undergrowth to see what he could see. Trees. He grunted in disgust, though he didn’t know what he’d been expecting. Glad to still have his head, he started looking for the doorway so he wouldn’t have to go over the top of the wall, even though it was only a foot high. And, once he had some protection, he risked another look.

  Trees again. Tall, ancient trees. And... He cocked his head to the side as if that might help.

  Rawk gave a small smile. About twenty yards away, a troll was crouching behind an oak tree. It was bigger than the last one, from what he could tell. It had long shaggy hair but none of the ribbons or fetishes. So the other one was a shaman then. And this one a warrior.

  “Just what I need,” Rawk muttered. If the shaman had come close to killing him with nothing more than a tree branch, what would an armed warrior do? It carried a bow that was taller than Rawk and examined the forest with cold, expressionless eyes. It had another arrow ready to go.

  Rawk examined his surroundings. Nothing had changed. Forest and ragged walls. He ducked down and wondered what to do next. I could charge the creature, Rawk thought, but he wasn’t completely serious. Well, seeing he didn’t have a bow, he’d have to get closer. So he started to crawl again, pushing through a thick carpet of red flowers. After a few yards he stopped. He didn’t think it was a good idea to poke his head up again, so he held his breath instead and tried to listen for sounds of movement. The pounding of his heart made that all but impossible. He crawled some more. When he looked up next, the troll was crouching on the wall,
watching. Its bow and quiver were leaning against the wall close by. It held a mace with a solid oak ball the size of Rawk’s head. The spikes were as long as his fingers.

  “Hello,” Rawk said.

  The troll sneered. “The forest is not safe, little man.”

  Rawk got to his knees, leaving his staff on the ground and reaching for the hilt of his sword. Why the hell did I bring Kult? he wondered. I need more reach. He glanced at the bow. He wondered if he could draw the troll away then race back and collect it. But he’d need to get an arrow as well and then nock it. He’d need a big head start and he doubted he could draw the bow anyway. And he’d never liked bows and therefore had never been very good at using them. Or perhaps it was the other way around. He slowly drew his sword instead. It would look like a dagger in the hand of his opponent. The creature smiled, rose to its feet, and stepped down into the house.

  “Path.” Rawk backed away, working at the clasp on his cloak. He let the garment fall to the ground then almost tripped over it. The troll closed the distance between them. Rawk shrugged his shoulders to get the bag off. And the troll attacked when the strap got stuck in the folds of his shirt.

  Rawk rolled to the side, coming up without the bag. He spun back and lunged. But the troll was somewhere else, faster than should have been allowed for something that large. A moment later, the troll come back at him from behind, swinging high. Duck and slash. The troll lashed out with a boot. Rawk grunted and fell back, stomach aching and probably already bruising, possibly bleeding. He struggled to draw breath as he scrambled backwards. At the wall, he stopped. He didn’t have the strength to get himself over the top.

  “Great Path.” It was an opportune time to start believing in a god. Rawk could feel panic clawing at his chest, squeezing his heart.

  His opponent stalked closer, green eyes fierce. It showed big yellow teeth in a snarl of hate.