by William King
Martin was not appeased: "That may be a laudable ambition, but when you swore your oath in front of the City Fathers you knew they would not agree with you. Therefore you have used deception, and that is forbidden to a devotee of Ulric. He will not grant you his blessing now, never allow you to benefit from the zone of safety which the Dawnstone and its jewels provide; still less attain the using of the Hammer of the Stars! Had you not drunk deep yourself of the wine you gave our citizens, you would know this!"
N'dru snorted: "Tell not initiates of the White Wolf what He will give! It is courage and will that grant access to these wondrous things; those who lack them can never approach the Hammer. Well may you blather to your own petty gods!"
He went on one knee, holding the amulet above him, as though an offering: "Lord Ulric! Grant me the power to wear this marvellous instrument of Thy Will! Let it guide me past all illusions and unworthy spells set against the righteous by those who have usurped the Star Hammer! Allow me to wield that holy weapon, in the war against darkness and un-nature!"
He opened the armband, and very deliberately placed it round his wrist. Martin groaned "No!" as it snapped shut. At once there was a stirring of the air in the chamber, which grew into a wind like a god departing, howling like a wolf in pain. The torches guttered, went out: first there was total blackness, then a very faint light which grew slightly - it was the runes on N'dru's battle-hammer, and others glowed from Peredur's armour.
A female voice spoke sharply, in a language Peredur did not know. A brighter light appeared, seeming to come from the hair of the woman C'tlain: he wondered if it would be consumed, or bleached even lighter. Martin spoke: "See! As I predicted! Your drunken folly has deprived the amulet of its ability to disperse all charms. Surely, in all reason, you must now return it to us."
N'dru shook his head. "I shall to the High Temple of Ulric. There, its power will be restored, when Winter comes again."
Peredur was tiring of all this. Drawing his sword, he stepped forward: "You've done enough damage. Return the amulet, if you are wise - I'd love the chance to force you!"
The big man's reply was to snatch up the great hammer with a snarl, and swing it without words. Peredur took the blow on his shield: it was a mighty one, but he was not hurt. Before N'dru could recover, Peredur slashed at his half-exposed neck. This did not wound him but managed to shear through the badly fastened mail, so a flap came loose. N'dru swung again, and this time dashed the shield right out of Peredur's grasp. The blow was so great that the older man was for an instant off balance, at his opponent's mercy. Peredur poised his sword to strike again... He looked down the blade, and saw only the face of D'vorah. Her expression bore such agony that he knew he could never strike her brother down. He pulled his blow, tried only for a wound to the arm, but did little damage there.
N'dru knew nothing of this narrow escape, and resumed swinging blows as fast as they were heavy. Had he been more sober, he must surely have prevailed easily; even so, he was dangerous. Handicapped and shieldless, Peredur skipped around the room. N'dru was much more experienced, and tried to corner him in the doorway, drive him down the steps. The big man laughed as he swung the hugest blow of all. Peredur could only duck. The hammer whistled over his head, and crashed into a great pillar. It had missed him by a hair's breadth, but that was the end for the ivory handle shattered into fragments, the runes still glowing. Peredur twisted away from the hammer-head, stumbling to the ground - needlessly, for it shot back at its master, not gently but with the force of a cannonball, striking N'dru on the breastplate with a mighty crash and pitching him over onto his backside.
Now they were both on the ground. Voices began to clamour but Whiteflower stepped forward with her halberd, deftly sliding the point against N'dru's throat, keeping out of his reach.
"An end to fighting: Verena dislikes it! Return the amulet!"
N'dru was not finished. He snarled at her, slowly gathering himself up. She did not stir, and he pushed forward against her point: a contest of titanic wills. Neither would yield: a tiny drop of blood formed at the needle tip; then the air was torn by a scream, and D'vorah collapsed in a feint. N'dru sagged back, saying: "Alas, who would have thought I could fail thus! I must return your seal, loss though it is to the quest!"
He shuffled back to the chest. They followed, and Peredur found himself saying: "What makes you think only men of Ulric are worthy to seek the Hammer of the Stars? Here are devotees of Verena, and I for one fancy seeking it out, trying my courage."
N'dru paused in amazement, hand on seal, starting to unclasp it. They froze, a tableau of unsatisfied adventurers. The voice of C'tlain broke the silence, colder than D'vorah's, distant, prophetic: "Take heed. The route to what you seek, is perilous and little known. Even the best find it a hard one, as we have seen. But that is not half, for the mighty thing is well guarded, and you will find that if you should reach the city of the Star Hammer you would regret that you went there."
She spoke to them all, to no man in particular. N'dru had been fumbling at the clasp of the Dawnstone amulet; now it fell from his arm into its chest, which slammed shut. The light from the runes, and the enchantment on the hair of C'tlain, vanished as suddenly.
By the time Peredur, Whiteflower and Martin found their tinder in the dark, there was no trace of the visitors. It took them a longer while to repass the secret door. It was the time of false dawn before they reached the upper city - and found the strangers had vanished from there too, as suddenly as they had arrived.
You may think Peredur returned cheerfully to the dull Academy. Not so - though he had a greater purpose to his learning now. Saskia Whiteflower, and even Brother Martin, were restless also. Peredur had not meant to make an idle boast when he had said that he would seek the sacred Hammer. The three would be ready for that quest one day soon.
PULG'S GRAND CARNIVAL
by Simon Ounsley
The old man lay in a ditch at the side of the road to Krugenheim, his right hand clutching at the mortal wound on his chest.
"Robbers," he whispered with his fading breath when Hans saw him lying there and ran across to offer help. "They took all my money, took my mule..."
"I'll help you up," said Hans, appalled and flustered at the sight of the old man's wound. "We'll get a lift, see a doctor in Krugenheim..."
"It's no good. I won't make it to the side of the road, let alone to Krugenheim." The ghost of a smile crossed the old man's face. "That's one thing to be thankful for, I suppose," he said. "I could never stand the place."
"At least have a drink," said the youth, taking his water bottle out of his bag and holding it to the man's lips. A few drops ran into the parched mouth and the old man coughed and spluttered.
"I don't suppose you have any ale, do you?" he said.
Hans shook his head and put away the bottle. The old man looked sad and disappointed.
Hans looked about him helplessly, at the muddy ditch, at the trees beyond. What now, then? What more could he do to help this dying stranger? He looked down and saw the blood-shot eyes staring back at him.
"You're a pale sort of a lad," said the old man thoughtfully. "When you first appeared, I took you for the goddess Shallya come to visit me. I suppose, in a way, she must have sent you, though it's really too late and, heh heh, I could have wished for someone a little prettier."
Hans blushed and clenched his fists. Always these jibes! All right, so he looked a little bit strange...
"No, no," said the old man. "Don't get upset, boy. I'm glad you came along here and, who knows, maybe I can make you glad of it too. Here, feel inside my jacket..."
Hans looked horrified. He sat there staring at the old man's chest wound: at the stained fabric, the ruptured flesh.
"No, I don't want you to touch my wound. It hurts enough already, thank you. Look, see here, inside this pocket."
Hans reached out and felt inside the pocket. He drew out a long piece of hollow bone with holes in its side. He was holding a flute. The old
man's eyes sparkled.
"There's something the robbers didn't get," he said. "Served me very well all these years, it has. And me an old man travelling alone with my wares on all the wild highways of the Empire. Protected me from evil, it has. Until now, of course. Reactions getting slow. Didn't have time to pull the damn thing out."
Hans looked at the instrument doubtfully.
"The flute? Protected you? How?"
The old man spluttered and began to cough up blood.
"Listen," he said. "Listen now, before I'm gone." His voice had grown fainter now. Hans had to lean forward in order to hear. He could feel the man's cold breath on his cheek and the stench of death in his nostrils. "Do you ever wish," the old man whispered, "that people would do what you tell them..?"
Krugenheim was quite a sight.
Hans just stood there on the great bridge above the River Glosch, staring at the view and shaking his head in wonder. The city was perched on the top of a hill which towered above the surrounding countryside like a monster over a mouse. With its high walls and proud flags flying in the breeze, it took his breath away. And it almost took away the thought of the sores on his feet into the bargain. It had been worth the trek all the way from Hazelhof just to stand here and look at the city for the first time. Travellers through his home village had spoken of Krugenheim as a small, insignificant city compared to such fabulous places as Altdorf and Middenheim, but it was the first city Hans had ever seen and it looked grand enough to him. He could hardly wait to walk through its bustling streets and be a part of it all.
This is Krugenheim, he thought to himself. Things are going to be different here.
Then he heard raucous, cackling laughter and turned to see two men on a cart looking across at him. One of them was talking to the other behind a cupped hand, but this meagre attempt at propriety hardly seemed to be worth the bother. It was quite obvious that Hans was the butt of their laughter.
"A cream bun," he heard one of them saying, as the cart passed him by. "A cream bun with a nice dollop of jam." And they both started laughing again. The driver fell about and almost lost control of his donkey.
Hans felt his heart sink to the pit of his stomach. This was the way it had always been. He wanted to cry. He wanted...
Then he remembered, and took the flute out of his jerkin pocket. He started to play. He was no musician and the notes he produced weren't much of a tune but the old man had told him not to worry about such matters - the magic would work anyway.
Right then, he thought: stop the cart!
"Whoa!" he heard the driver call, pulling on the reins. The cart slowed to a squeaky halt and the two men just sat there, staring in front of them.
Hans walked round the cart to take a look. They looked like two particularly stupid pack animals, he thought. He felt excitement rising inside him. It had worked!
But what to do now?
Ah yes - that would do. He thought the appropriate instructions and stood back watching in satisfaction as the two men climbed down from the cart, painstakingly removed their breeches, and threw them over the side of the bridge. The garments billowed out like strange grey sails as they drifted down to the river, far below.
A crowd began to gather, laughing and jeering at the two men, and Hans drew back, trying to lose himself amongst it. When the men regained their wills and began to look about them in astonishment, he quietly slipped away and resumed his trek up the road to the city gate.
Now, suddenly, he began to feel guilty. He remembered what the old man had said as he lay dying, about how the flute would lose some power each time it was used.
"Magic isn't an easy thing to come by," he had said, "so don't go squandering it every time you get annoyed at someone. The flute will recharge itself but it takes a while. Three times a year is the most you should use it. Any more than that and it'll run out of magic."
Just three times a year! Hans thought to himself. And he had used it once already. He would have to be more careful in the future...
But then he thought of the two men standing there without any breeches on and began to feel happy again. It had been worth it just to see their faces. And, after all, the flute still had two of its lives left, didn't it?
With rather more skill than he had managed for the flute, he began to whistle a jaunty tune. Yes, he thought to himself, pocketing the flute. This is Krugenheim. Things are going to be different here.
Half an hour later, he was no longer so sure.
Entering the city gate had gone well enough. He had arrived at the same time as a party of adventurers: a rag-tag mixture of a dwarf, an elf, a grey-bearded wizard and two halflings, between them loaded with enough weapons, treasure and suspicious-looking maps to keep the city guards busy for the rest of the day. So they had waved Hans through without any questions. And now here he was in Krugenheim at last, walking up a steep cobbled street and gazing in amazement to either side as more people than he had ever seen before thronged about him, walking, talking, dancing and shouting their wares. This is wonderful, he thought - this is where life is.
So far, so good.
And then he had felt hungry.
The little inn had looked cheap and inviting enough, a bit like The Woodsman's Arms back in Hazelhof. It was good to be away from his home village at last but a few home comforts wouldn't come amiss, he decided. And he was very tired from his long journey. So, he had made his way down the narrow side street to the inn, never thinking to keep open a wary eye as he went...
Wham! Thump!
The blows seemed to come out of nowhere. Suddenly his head hurt and there were strong arms about him, the palm of a grimy hand pressed against his mouth. And then he was being dragged backwards, heels scraping across the cobblestones, the strap of his bag chafing on the skin of his arm as it was pulled away from him. He felt hands groping through his pockets, drink-sodden breath on his face. He saw a young face pressed close to his, and found himself staring for a moment into a pair of mean eyes and a drooling mouth which seemed to have every other tooth missing.
The flute, Hans thought to himself, through the sickly haze which had suddenly infested his head. Don't let them take the flute! Then the restraining arm grew tighter around his body and the pain made the haze want to rise up and blot out everything else. Would they kill him, Hans wondered dimly as a film of black and white speckles swept across his vision.
He was only barely aware of the crack of a whip and shrill cries as the arms finally released him. He felt a blow in the small of his back and then painful jolts to his arms and legs as the ground seemed to rise up and hit him. He lay there helpless while all the sores on his body clamoured for attention, trying not to be sick and listening to the boot-heels clattering away across the cobblestones.
When he finally managed to focus his vision, he saw a pair of fine leather boots beside his head. Then there was a firm hand on his shoulder, helping him gently back to his feet.
"Well then," said a voice in his ear, "what sort of a day have you been having?"
He found it difficult to stand up at first. His vision began to grow dim again, and some sort of monster seemed to be writhing about in his stomach. But the arm was supporting him firmly and after a while he began to feel better, bringing his eyes into focus on his rescuer. He saw boyish, steely blue eyes set in a haggard face framed by a luxurious growth of greying hair and beard. Full, greedy lips were parted in astonishment.
"Goodness me," said the man, staring at Hans with unconcealed fascination, "by Ranald's waxed moustache, what have we here? A thing of peculiar beauty, I do believe."
Hans tried to pull away, unnerved by his rescuer's intense scrutiny, but he felt the dizziness returning and was forced to lean forward on the man's arm again.
"I should stay where I was if I were you," said the man. "Oh yes - this could be the making of you, my lad." He cupped Hans' chin in his hand and examined him as though he were a pack animal at market. Hans no longer had the strength to complain.
&
nbsp; "Albino," said the man, running his fingers across the youth's face. "White hair, pale skin and yet here - " His fingers paused on Hans' right cheek, "a mark of great distinction. Red, wouldn't you say, my boy? Bright scarlet. Quite astonishing."
"So I look a bit different," muttered Hans miserably. "So what?" His heart felt as sick as his stomach now. Would it always be the same? Would he never escape from the ridicule of his pale skin and his birthmark?
The man seemed to be getting excited. "So what?" he said. "So what, the boy asks. So I can make a star of you, that's what. I must introduce myself. I am Hannibal Pulg, proprietor of the greatest show in all the Empire: Pulg's Grand Carnival, a display of diverse animals so unique and astonishing it will satiate the appetites of children and scholars alike. And you can be a part of it, my boy, yes indeed, perhaps even my partner before very much longer. Your qualities will stand you in good stead in this business, mark my words. It really is difficult to get suitable staff these days. In other cities, I was able to employ genuine mutants but the authorities here tend to be so fastidious about that sort of thing..."
"You want me as a freak!" cried Hans, as realization dawned on him. "You want to exhibit me!"
Pulg applied a delicate finger to his full lips.
"Hush, my boy," he said. "Steady yourself. I will help you to exploit your natural qualities to the full, that is all."
"You'll display me as a freak," said Hans. "That's what I've always been. I came here to get away from that."
"Did you indeed? And where did you come from, if I might make so bold as to ask?"
"Hazelhof," said Hans. "I come from Hazelhof."
"Ah," said Pulg, gazing off into the middle distance as though to bring the place to his mind's eye. "Far distant Hazelhof. About twenty-five miles away, isn't it? Aren't you the little traveller then?"
"I walked all the way," boasted Hans, having failed to recognize the irony in Pulg's voice. Twenty-five miles was indeed a long way for him, futher than he had ever travelled before in his life. Kalbkopf the timber merchant had journeyed into Krugenheim twice a week on his cart but none of Hans' family had ever been offered the chance to accompany him.