by Peter David
I slowed.
Listen to me, Apropos! This is not who and what you are! Tacit really was the hero, and you saw how he ended up! How much worse will it be for you? You owe them nothing …
I slowed more …
… nothing, do you hear me? Wipe your mouth! Get the taste of her lips off there right this instant! Flee! Flee, right now! You do not want to do this! You cannot want to do this!
She trusted me …
Damn you, Apropos! Can you do nothing wrong right?!
I stopped.
I looked behind me.
There were tracks now. I was sinking into the snow. Sinking into my own frustration and confusion.
And that was when the Journeyman came at me.
His woodcraft was impressive, admittedly. He was keeping downwind of me so that I couldn’t possibly scent him. Still, I would have heard him if I hadn’t been so busy arguing within my own skull. He was not a behemoth by any stretch of the imagination, but he was larger than me. He had a heavy brow and a mashed-in nose, and the rest was covered by a chain-mail coif. Disdaining a hauberk, which oftentimes accompanied a coif—probably because chain-mail hauberks made an unholy racket when moving through the forest, and this was apparently a light-infantry man—he wore thick black leather armor with white trim, and a cloak of similar colors dangling off his shoulder. The only thing that tipped me to his presence, at literally the last moment, was his trailing cloak snatching a branch and causing it to crack. I spun, my staff in my hand, but he had his sword out and was not wasting any time.
“Wait!” I said, throwing up a hand. He halted, a wolfish smile on his face. “Why kill me? Meander once extended hospitality to an entire regiment! I’ll …” My mind raced. “I’ll join him. Join you. I have no difficulty with that.”
He looked at me askance. “Would you be ‘Apropos’?”
I blinked in surprise. “Why … yes.”
He sighed. “Sorry. Can’t help you.”
And with that halfhearted and utterly puzzling apology, he came at me, swinging his sword high, fast, and down, like an axeman chopping wood.
He wasn’t giving me a chance to pull free my sword, but I didn’t need to. I yanked either end of my staff and it came apart at the middle, as it was designed to. With a baton in either hand now and acting entirely on reflex, I swung one side of it up and around even as I darted inside the downward arc of his swing, pushing off with my good left leg for more speed. The baton caught the sword on the flat of the blade, shoving it aside and sending it to the ground just to my left. On the other baton, I pushed the triggering device and the blade snapped out, even as I lunged forward and stabbed upward.
The four-inch blade sank into his right eye and angled up into his brain.
His remaining eye widened in surprise as he dropped his sword, and he would have let out a shriek right then that would have alerted the damned in Hell, except that I let my momentum carry me forward and I slammed into him. We both went to the ground, and I clapped a hand over his mouth, stifling his agonized screams. I think he had no clear idea what was happening at that point; all he knew was that he was half-blinded and could no longer control his body. He spasmed wildly and I held him down, staying atop him as if I were trying to break a wild horse. Blood spurted from his ruined eye socket all over my gloved hands, and I tried not to think about the fluids that were pumping out onto me.
And slowly … horribly, horribly slowly … the frantic twitching stopped. His head slumped to one side, and for the second time in two days, I watched someone’s lifeblood turn the snow crimson. Except this time … I was the one who had done it.
The full impact of it had not yet settled in on me. I pulled out the half staff and stared at the blood-tinged blade on the end of it in wonderment. I had taken the life of a man, with my own hand. Granitz had fallen on his sword, the Harper that I had killed had been more beast than human, and Tacit had been annihilated by the archers. But this time, this time … I had fought a man, a soldier, who was trying to kill me, and I had killed him first. My first true kill.
I didn’t even know his name.
And as I watched the life light vanish from his one remaining eye, I let out a choked sob and then retched violently, my stomach seized with dry heaves. I knew he had been trying to kill me. I had beaten him fairly … well, as fairly as one can when one is pulling a surprise weapon on an opponent. But still … I had killed him …
I felt no elation. I only felt cold and empty … and a sick sense of irony. Because this soldier over whom I had stumbled was actually the first piece in my utterly preposterous plan. The plan that I had known, beyond question, could not possibly work, required that I find one of Meander’s men in the woods and overcome him.
Step one in the chain of idiocy had been accomplished. And at that point, I couldn’t think of a single good reason not to proceed to step two.
You’re going to get yourself killed! They know you’re coming for some reason! It’s a death trap! It’s—
Allow me to rephrase: I simply didn’t want to think of a single good reason not to proceed to step two.
It was only a matter of minutes to don the man’s armor. The most disgusting thing was donning the coif. His blood still tinged the inside. But I wanted to cover myself up as much as possible, and so I pulled on the chain-mail headpiece and tried not to dwell upon the stuff within that was sticking to my hair. I found a sizable downed tree with a goodly part of the trunk’s interior rotted away, and I stuffed the man’s corpse into it. Then I retched again, and this time allowed it to keep going until it ran its course, rather than fight it. I wrapped the man in my cloak; I figured it was the least I could do. Besides, his cloak was nicer.
This is madness, this is madness, my inner voice kept chanting, over and over. I stopped listening to it, because I knew that it was right and therefore there wasn’t much point in arguing about it.
I made my way through the woods as carefully as I could. Even if I had possessed no craft at all, I would still have been able to catch up with Meander’s men. They were, after all, trooping down the main road, making no effort to hide their presence. The main thing I had on my side was that Meander’s troops were somewhat fluid in nature. Soldiers tended to come and go as they saw fit. Indeed, “soldiers” might have been too generous a name for them, since the word carries with it careful training, a military command structure, and sense of order. Meander, on the other hand, was the antithesis of order. Naturally he believed in obedience to he himself, but beyond that, he was—shall we say—flexible. It would probably have been more accurate to term them “warriors.” No matter what you called them, however, they tended to get the job done. But because of that fluidity of nature, my hope was that I would be able to insinuate myself into their ranks without being noticed.
By the time I arrived, the head of the procession—where Meander presumably was—had already gone by. I chose my spot behind a nicely large tree and watched them pass. I heard them making comments about Runcible, about ransoms and such, which settled for me beyond any question that their goal was to go to the fort and take the king captive. I waited until there was a brief break in the procession, where the men ahead were engaged in conversation and the men just behind weren’t paying attention, and I simply stepped into place and started walking. No one paid me the least bit of attention. For all I knew, if someone had seen me stepping out of the woods, he might well have assumed that I was answering nature’s call and now falling back into line.
The most fantastic aspect of all this was to be at the heart of the insane weather conditions that accompanied Meander’s advancement. Snow had been coming down on me in the forest mere seconds ago; I shook out my newly acquired cloak to try and get as much off me as I could. And snow continued briskly on the other side. But here, on the road … nothing. It was a truly eerie sensation, like standing in the middle of a downpour and not getting wet.
Subtly, I managed to catch up to the men who were discussing Runcible. ”
… hasn’t a prayer,” I heard one of them saying, a burly man with beady eyes. ” ‘Runcible the Crafty.’ There’s a laugh. We have the crafty one cold.”
I piped up, “Yes, he’s caught with his jerkin off this time,” and this prompted a rousing guffaw from the others.
“Well said!” the burly man commented, apparently not caring who I was as long as my views were along his lines.
And then I added, almost as an afterthought, “Although …” I let it hang there for a moment and then said, “No … never mind.”
“Never mind what?” The burly man had fixed those beady eyes on me, and the attention of several others trudging along had also been caught.
“Well, it’s just … I heard that there was an entire army who thought they had Runcible cold. I mean, absolutely pinioned, no way out. Turned out that they’d fallen into the middle of an elaborate scheme of his. A handful of them escaped with their lives … the rest, put to the sword. But that’s just what I heard,” I added dismissively. “Very likely nothing to it. I suppose that’s how legends get built … by the constant repetition of deeds to the point where you don’t know if they’re true or not.”
“That’s valid enough,” said the burly man, but he was looking slightly uneasy.
Which was exactly what I wanted.
I started picking up my pace. Considering my physical limitations, that might not have been possible were it not for the fact that the troops were taking their own sweet time. I smelled alcohol on the breath of quite a few as I made my way past them. Yes, by the gods, this was a group that was entirely too relaxed. Still, what they lacked in sobriety, they made up for in numbers. They stretched as far back and ahead as I could see. And every so often, I would stop and have a conversation along the lines of the one I just had minutes before. Each time I would then move on, leaving the Journeymen with food for thought and the smallest seed of suspicion planted within them.
I moved forward, ever faster. I had to try and get to Meander himself, or at least get near him, so that I could be in the proper position to have some sort of impact once we reached the forest itself. My inner voice had stopped talking to me. I think it decided that it was wasting its time and was going to go off and be an inner voice for someone who actually paid it some mind.
Several of the soldiers grunted or mumbled, “Watch where you’re going,” as I shouldered my way past. I kept my head down and my feet heading ever forward. I knew I was getting closer to the front, though, when I heard voices saying “Your Highness” every other sentence. Everyone was being properly obedient, subservient and obsequious. Would that I had brought thicker boots for wading through all the bullshit that was being tossed about so freely.
I didn’t hear Meander’s voice much. I heard others asking him questions or firing opinions at him, and he would say “Hmm” or “Ahhhh” or “I see.” In that respect, he reminded me of King Runcible a bit. Except in Runcible’s case I wondered whether or not it was subterfuge to cover a slow mind, whereas with Meander it was a different story. I had no doubt that Meander was genuinely brilliant. Who else, after all, would have come up with the entire “movable feast” concept. As near as I could tell, though, he did not like to volunteer much beyond that in the way of instructions or even jobs. Then again, I was not a big one for listening to, or accepting, rules, so I certainly couldn’t condemn him for that.
We rounded a mild curve and I took the opportunity to speed up a bit more. I did not want to draw too much attention to either me or my staff. Even so, I was a bit apprehensive about being recognized somehow … particularly since that one soldier I had killed had blurted out my name.
And then I saw Meander, from the back. I was positive it was he, because he had the largest circle of advisors and they were all babbling contradictory information simultaneously. That and the fact that he was in a throne. The chair was mounted on a litter and was being carried by four men, two in front, two behind. It was certainly the best way to travel. Finally I was relieved to see him clap his hands to his ears and declare, “Enough!” His advisors promptly shut up. As far as I was concerned, that was enough reason to become king right there: Being able to tell people to shut their mouths, and make it stick.
I walked faster still, drawing in close, coming up behind, and then alongside, and I cast a glance at King Meander.
His hair was almost solid gray, like ice, and yet I could see that he was not truly all that old. But he had very old eyes, as if they had seen so much of life—enough for ten lifetimes—that they were all but ready to close for the final time. His eyebrows, surprisingly, were solid black, in contrast to the gray and black beard, neatly trimmed as a contrast to his rough-hewn exterior. His face had a craggy, weatherbeaten, care-filled look …
… and four scratches down the left side … nasty, ugly vicious marks … such as might be made by an attacking animal … or like a woman might have made struggling in her last moments before death …
Chapter 25
My world reeled around me and I hadn’t even realized I’d stopped walking until an irritated Journeyman pushed me from behind and muttered an imprecation that I should move my ass or he’d cut it off for me. I was in motion before I even realized it, walking numbly, casting repeated glances in Meander’s direction, looking at those marks on his face as if they were calling to me from beyond the grave.
Had it been he? Had it been the leader of the Journeymen, riding about, looking for some sport, who had killed Madelyne? Had nothing less than royalty been responsible for striking her down? My mind was whirling, out of focus, and that was extremely dangerous because the only thing that was going to give me anything faintly resembling an advantage was my ability to think. At that moment, though, I could barely string two coherent thoughts together.
I heard the sound of running feet and looked up the road. Two men, dressed similarly to the fellow I had dispatched, were approaching as quickly as they could, and for a panicked moment I thought they had discovered his body. “All stop,” said Meander, and the order was relayed back with rapid-fire precision. Within moments the entire procession had halted as the two runners knelt before Meander and I waited to see just how screwed I was.
The throne was lowered to the ground and Meander stepped from it. “How now, good runners?” Meander said. His voice was deep and rough.
“We have seen the fort, sire. It is just ahead, beyond the grove.”
A ghost of a smile touched Meander’s lips. “And what preparations has Runcible made for us? Doors bolted? Does he have a handful of arrows at the ready, perhaps?”
“No, sire. The doors are wide open and there appear no signs of resistance.”
Meander sighed heavily. “Gone on the run, has he? Foolish. We’ll have to track him down, then.” He turned to a man standing at his side, an older man who reminded me slightly of Umbrage, except without the vacant stare. Indeed, he looked as if he had brought some of the Frozen North with him, except on the inside. “Captain Grimmoir … I want you to take two—”
“Begging Your Majesty’s pardon,” one of the runners said, “but Runcible is not on the run.”
Slowly Meander looked back at his two information gatherers, his face a question. “He’s not? You mean … he’s surrendering?” He sounded slightly disappointed.
The runners looked at each other uncomfortably, as if not sure how to best express it. “Not … exactly, sire.”
“Well, then, what, then?”
“It … isn’t easy to describe, Highness.”
“Give it a whack,” said the king icily.
One of the runners, the older of the two, took a deep breath and said, “King Runcible is sitting atop the battlements, dressed in fool’s motley, jingling little bells and singing baudy tavern chants, with the front doors wide open and no sign of defenses being made whatsoever.”
There was dead silence for a moment, and then a ripple of disbelieving laughter. Meander leaned forward, his fingers interlaced, and he said very softly, “Are
you quite sure?”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
The man he’d called Grimmoir made a loud, scoffing noise. “The man is mad!” he declared loudly, and there were nods of agreement.
Meander turned and looked at Grimmoir thoughtfully. I couldn’t take my eyes off the scars on his face; they seemed to cry out to me with my mother’s voice. “I’ve heard the same thing said of me, Captain. Do you concur? Do you follow a madman, Grimmoir?”
“No, Your Highness,” Grimmoir said quickly.
Once again that same ghostly smile, and then Meander said, “There are others who might disagree. Well, then … let us see this phenomenon for ourselves, so that we may determine how many mad kings are at issue this day. Advance, Captain.”
“Advance!” shouted Grimmoir, and once again the order was quickly relayed down the line as Meander climbed back onto his throne and was hoisted once more.
I tore my thoughts away from my mother’s final moments, not wanting to lose sight of the plan—as pathetic as that plan might be. I drifted close, not to Grimmoir, but to the man to his immediate right, who appeared to be his lieutenant. Seconds-in-command enjoy attention, since they receive it so rarely. “Do you think him mad, sir?” I asked in a low voice. “Runcible, I mean.”
The lieutenant shrugged. “No other explanation for it.”
“That’s quite true. Such a reputedly crafty king would never engage in such actions unless he was truly bereft of reason. Unless, of course …” Once again I stopped. “Fie. ‘Tis of no consequence.”
He looked at me oddly. “Speak, soldier. What is on your mind?”
“I said, sir, it is of no consequence—”
“And I said speak. That’s an order.” He liked saying that, I could tell.
“Well,” I said, glancing around as if to make sure we weren’t being overheard, “what if it’s … a trap …”
“A trap? How could it possibly be a trap?”
I shrugged. “If I knew such things, sir, I would be an officer.”