Heroes And Fools totfa-2

by Margaret Weis

  The old man flung himself forward, clinging to Griff’s legs, his forehead pressed to the knees of the man whose family he’d destroyed. “Don’t, please. I’ll give you everything I have!” He pulled back, his arms flung wide. “Take anything you see here!”

  The sword hung, unmoving, over the silent child.

  “Take anything!” Egil Adare cried, the wheedling whine back in his voice. “I’m a rich man! Spare my grandchild and I’ll give you jewels, I’ll give you all the steel you want!”

  So he said, but the dearest thing Griff wanted this old man had long ago destroyed.

  Griff’s hands tightened on the sword grip. His eyes grew strange and still when he saw his own scarred reflection in the polished blade. All his ghosts stared back at him, howling, the mother, the father, the sister. Ah, the infant brother screaming all the deaths.

  “Anything,” Egil sobbed, his face white and dirty, running at the nose. “Anything, take everything. . ”

  In the instant he said it, moaning his last plea, Griff did just that. He looked Egil Adare straight in the eye, and he took everything.

  Now you have heard the truth of Griff Rees, who was stolen from his home in the days before the Second Cataclysm. He’d been a long time gone, on hard roads and cruel, by the time Olwynn Haugh came into the Swan and Dagger to open her little green velvet pouch and show him how much she could pay him for the safety of his company on her road home.

  If Olwynn’s road didn’t bring her all the way home, it did lead Griff there. Soon after winter he took the north-running ways to Estwilde. I haven’t heard that he’s farming there, but they do say he’s settled near where his father’s farm used to be. That was a time ago, maybe eight years, or nine.

  I haven’t seen him a day since then, but news travels, and the word that comes to me is good. Some of it says Killer Griff has found himself some peace, maybe even his soul.

  Well, it’s always “maybe” when you’re talking about that kind of thing, peace and souls, but true enough it is they say that the little girl he’s raising up as his own, that one with the springtime blue eyes, is the smile on his lips and the light in his heart.

  Noblesse Oblige

  Paul B. Thompson

  Mile after mile the winding trail ran, closed off from the sky by a dense arch of leafy branches. The first exuberant growth of spring had transformed the forest from a hall of barren trunks to a living cavern of green. Sunlight scarcely penetrated to the forest floor, leaving the horse and rider in perpetual shade.

  Roder nodded in the saddle. The old charger, named Berry because of his red coat, had a gentle swaying gait that lulled his rider as surely as a summer hammock. Roder had been on the road since before dawn, and the excitement of his hasty departure had worn off after many miles of calm woodland.

  He’d ridden out from Castle Camlargo, an outpost on the western edge of the great forest. On a scant hour’s notice Roder had been given an important dispatch by the commandant of the castle, Burnond Everride, to deliver to the neighboring stronghold at Fangoth. In between the two castles lay the vast forest, home of wild animals and even wilder outlaws.

  Roder’s slack hand dropped the reins. Without a hand to guide him, Berry at once fell to cropping tender leaves from the branches encroaching on the narrow track. The sudden cessation of morion roused Roder like reveille.

  “What? Huh?” His hands went to his head and found the heavy helmet perched there. His memory returned when he touched cold steel. His mission-the dispatch.

  He checked the waxed leather case hanging from his shoulder. Lord Burnond’s seal was intact.

  Since Berry was having a snack, Roder decided to get down and stretch his legs. He stooped to touch his toes, then arched his back, leaning against the weight of the sword strapped to his left hip. The sword was a potent reminder of the cause of his journey.

  Outlaws. Half a dozen robber bands used the forest as their hideout, and their depredations were giving Lord Burnond fits. Most of the tiny Camlargo garrison was out chasing one gang or another, and when the time came to find a courier to take the commandant’s message to Fangoth, Roder was the only man left to carry out the delicate mission.

  “The forest bandits refuse to acknowledge our sovereignty. Our last three messengers vanished in the wilderness without trace,” Burnond solemnly warned him. “Are you still willing to carry this dispatch to Lord Laobert?”

  “I am, my lord,” Roder declared. “I shall not fail!”

  What was that?

  Somewhere ahead, screened by ferns and bracken, someone was shouting. Above the voice in distress came a more ominous sound-the clang of metal on metal. Even Berry noticed and stopped stripping the bushes. The old warhorse’s instincts were still strong. At the sounds of fighting he snorted, nodded his head, and began pawing the ground with a single heavy hoof.

  “I hear it,” Roder said breathlessly. He tugged his brig-andine jacket into place and tightened the strap on his helmet. “Bandits!”

  Berry was very tall, and it took some effort for Roder to get his foot in the stirrup and hoist himself onto the animal’s broad back. He wrapped the reins tightly around his left hand and thumped Berry’s flanks with his spurless heels. “Giddup!” The old warhorse couldn’t manage a gallop, but he stirred himself to a stately canter, straight down the path toward the sounds.

  Once the horse was in motion, Roder wondered if he’d ever stop. Berry plowed on, paying no heed to low branches that threatened to sweep Roder out of the saddle. Leaves swatted his face, and limbs rang against the comb of his helmet. He shouted, “Whoa, Berry! Whoa!” but the warhorse would not stop until he’d delivered his Knight to the fray.

  The trail wound right, then left, descending a sandy slope tangled with tree roots exposed by heavy rains. Somehow Berry managed to avoid tripping on this hazard. Roder lifted his head and saw a two-wheeled cart overturned in a small brook that cut across the trail at the bottom of the hill. Four men, mounted on short, sturdy ponies, were milling around. Two of the men carried crude spears, saplings really, the tips hacked to points and hardened by fire. The other pair brandished blazing torches, with which they were trying to ignite the turned-over cart.

  “You there, stop!” Roder cried. He dragged at his sword hilt. The blade was longer than he thought, and it took him two pulls to free it. The marauders looked up from their work and pointed. Above the brook the trees parted enough to admit sun and sky, and the light flashed off Roder’s polished helmet and sword. The men with brands hurled them into the cart. The canvas canopy burst into flame, and two people leaped from the wreck to escape the fire. One slender figure in a long brown dress staggered ashore and was caught by a spear-armed brigand. He dragged the girl over his saddle, and with a whoop, galloped away. The other person from the cart, his clothes ablaze, threw himself in the water.

  Horrified to see a young girl carried off before his eyes, Roder let out a yell and steered Berry after the fleeing bandits. The heavy charger built up speed thundering down the hill, and for a moment it seemed he might overtake the robbers on their nimble ponies. But just as his rear hooves got wet, Berry snagged his front legs on a snarl of floating rope. The lines were firmly tied to the cart, and the horse twisted sideways and fell heavily into the brook.

  Roder went flying. He landed hard enough on the muddy bank to drive the wind from his chest and see stars in daylight. Berry stepped free of the ropes and trotted riderless up the hill after the bandits.

  The sun stopped spinning, and Roder felt cold water seeping into his boots. A shadow fell across his face, and he looked up to see a young man gazing down at him.

  “Are you all right?”

  Roder bolted from the mud. Somehow, in all the running, flying, and falling, he had managed to keep his grip on his sword. He presented the muddy blade to the stranger. The pale-faced young man backed away.

  “No, wait! I’m not one of tbe robbers!” he said, waving Roder’s sword aside. “That’s my cart there. My name’s T
effen-Teffen the carter.”

  Roder lowered his weapon warily. “What happened here?”

  “I’m a tradesman, on my way from Kyre to Fangoth,” said Teffen. He was little more than a boy, with a pale, pleasant face, spoiled by a rather long nose and sharp chin. Teffen was dressed like a townsman-trews, broadcloth tunic, and a leather vest. The sides of the vest were scorched. “My cart got mired in the creek, and before Renny and I could get out, the outlaws attacked.”

  “Renny?”

  “My sister.” Teffen’s eyes widened. “They got her! They got Renny!” He turned to pursue the long-departed brigands. Roder caught his arm and spun him around. Under the broadcloth the boy’s arm was slender but hard.

  “Wait,” said Roder. “You can’t catch four men on horseback by yourself.”

  “Let me go!”

  Roder released him. “You’d better listen to me. I know about bandits. They’re ruthless killers. The woods are full of them.”

  Teffen planted his hands on his hips. “Who are you?”

  He drew himself up to full height. “I am Roder, of Castle Camlargo.”

  “You’re one of the Dark Knights?” Roder nodded gravely. “We paid tithe to you to traverse your lands. We were supposed to be protected! You must help me save my sister!”

  “Under other circumstances, I would, but I have an important mission-I must deliver a dispatch to Fangoth as soon as possible.”

  Teffen looked as though he might cry. “You know what they’ll do to her, don’t you?”

  Roder tried not to think about it. Lord Burnond’s message, seal intact, still hung from his shoulder. The sheaf of parchment was a tremendous burden, far heavier than its true weight.

  “In the end, they’ll kill her,” Teffen was saying. “Of course, by then she may be better off dead.”

  “Don’t say that!”

  “Who am I fooling if I pretend otherwise?” the boy shouted. The following silence was lightened only by the gurgling of the stream.

  Roder looked from the sword in his muddy hand to Teffen’s plaintive face. “I’ll save your sister,” he said at last.

  Teffen fervently clasped his hands. “May the gods who still live bless you!”

  Embarrassed, Roder pulled his hands free on the pretext of washing them in the brook. As he splashed water on his face and rinsed the gray muck from his sword, he said, “Do you have a weapon, Teffen?”

  “Just this knife.” He held up a milliner’s blade, no more than three inches long. “I had a short sword, but a bandit knocked it from my hand. It fell in the water somewhere.”

  “Never mind.” Roder didn’t plan to fight the bandits anyway. He had some idea he and the boy could sneak into the robbers’ camp by night and free Renny. Swordplay was something he wanted to avoid.

  He took off his helmet, scooped up a double handful of cold water, and let it pour through his long, blond hair. When Roder stood up, he found Teffen watching him in a curiously attentive way. Teffen, aware his attention was noticed, turned away, slogging through the knee-deep water to the wrecked cart. Smoke from the burning cart made him cough.

  “What were you carrying?” asked Roder.

  “Dry goods, mostly. Bolts of yard cloth, wool yarn, a cask of buttons.” What hadn’t burned was hopelessly sodden. “It’s all gone, looks like.”

  “Worldly goods can be replaced,” Roder replied, nicking his helmet under his arm. “What matters most is saving your sister’s life and honor.”

  Teffen kicked the charred underside of the cart. “You’re right, my lord. I’m glad you came along when you did, or I’d have no hope at all.” He looked around suddenly. “My cart horse ran off when the bandits cut the traces. Where’s your steed, Sir Roder?”

  Good question. Roder shaded his eyes and gazed up the trail where Berry and the robbers had disappeared. He put on a good front. “Silly, brave old horse! When Berry hears the clash of steel, he has to gallop into the thick of things. Once he realizes he’s lost me, he’ll come back.”

  “Time is fleeting, my lord. Poor Renny-”

  “Yes, of course.” Roder sheathed his sword and walked onto the east bank of the stream. Teffen poked around in the ruined cart for a few seconds and soon joined Roder carrying a small canvas pack.

  “My things,” said the boy in response to Roder’s inquiring look. “Shall we go?”

  Roder led the way. He carried his helmet, letting the late day sun dry his loose, flowing hair. He was the very image of a Knight, with his broad shoulders, black brig-andine, helmet, and sword. His wet boots squished loudly as he walked, spoiling the effect, and by the time the sun set, his feet still weren’t dry.

  The brigands’ trail-and Berry’s-was easy to follow. The robbers rode two abreast down the narrow path, and Berry’s iron-shod hooves left substantial dents in the dirt. At intervals the bandits’ horses pulled up in a group and milled about, then set off again. Roder imagined they could hear Berry and thought the Knight they saw at the brook was bearing down on them. Strangely, they didn’t try to leave the path, though their smaller mounts could easily have done so, leaving Roder’s big warhorse to flounder in the underbrush and closely growing trees.

  He remarked on this to Teffen, who shrugged and said, “Who knows what bandits think?”

  “They want your sister for ransom,” Roder speculated. He was sweating under the weight of his equipment. “You don’t dress as if you have much money, though your manners are refined for a tradesman.”

  Teffen kicked a rock off the path. “Our family had money once. Our fortunes failed after the great war, and we’ve been working folk ever since.”

  “There’s no shame in that.”

  “I’m not ashamed of anything I do.”

  Roder cast a sideways glance at the boy. Something in Teffen’s manner-his stride, the determined set of his jaw-convinced Roder there was truth in his statement. Teffen, noticing Roder’s scrutiny, changed the subject.

  “How long have you been a Dark Knight?” the boy asked.

  “I’ve been at Camlargo all my life.”

  “That’s a curious way to put it.” Teffen smiled in an obscure way.

  “I was abandoned at the castle gate as a baby. Lord Bumond became my guardian and raised me.”

  They were walking close enough together that their shoulders bumped. Teffen said, “I’m sure it was more interesting than growing up in a milliner’s shop.”

  “I can’t complain. I get to spend a lot of time with horses. I like horses.”

  Darkness came early in the deep forest. The setting sun’s oblique rays could not penetrate the thick curtain of leaves, causing twilight to fall much sooner than it did on the plain. Roder and Teffen had marched for hours without closing the gap. Teffen was deeply worried about his sister; Roder could tell by the fact the boy said less and less as their hike progressed. The trail remained fresh; the robbers seemed just beyond reach, over the next hill, around the next turn. .

  Roder was tired. His feet were blistered where his wet stockings rubbed, and he was ravenously hungry. He diplomatically suggested pausing for quick meal. To his surprise, Teffen readily agreed to rest. They found a fallen ash tree a few steps off the trail. Roder sat astride the wide trunk and spread his kerchief on the moss-encrusted wood. Teffen perched on the other side of the tree, hands clasping a knee to his chest. He sighed.

  “We’ll find her,” Roder said. “They can’t have done anything with her yet. They’re still moving-they must know we’re pressing them.”

  “I just wish we were fifty strong instead of two,” Teffen said.

  “There aren’t fifty Knights at Castle Camlargo.”

  Teffen gazed off into the darkening wood. “Really? I thought there’d be more than that.”

  “There’s never more than thirty Knights at the castle. There’s a hundred men-at-arms, you know, but the whole garrison is out right now, hunting outlaws.”

  “I heard the forest was dangerous before I left home, but I had no ide
a how bad it was. Which band do you think attacked Renny and me?”

  Roder whittled slivers of hard, white cheese off the block he carried in his pouch. He offered a chunk to Teffen. “There’s any number of gangs roaming the forest, but Lord Burnond says two bands in particular are a menace. One’s run by a villain named Gottrus-’Bloody Gottrus’ the foresters call him. He was once a retainer of Lord Laobert’s, but he was branded for theft and driven out of Fangoth. They say he’s killed a hundred people, men and women alike, and robbed over a thousand.”

  Teffen bit off a piece of smoky cheese. “Who’s the other outlaw chief?”

  “A mysterious fellow known as ‘Lord’ Sandys.” Roder rummaged in his pouch and found the bunch of grapes he’d tossed in before his hasty departure from the castle. Unfortunately, his fall on the creek bank had pulped the sweet fruit. He withdrew his sticky fingers and shook his head.

  “What so mysterious about him?”

  “No one can say what he really looks like,” Roder said, wiping his fingers on the kerchief. “He’s a clever rogue. Last year he robbed a merchant caravan of fifteen hundred steel pieces, even though the wagons were guarded by fifty mercenaries.”

  “Has this Sandys killed a lot of people?”

  “His share, I’m sure. He’s an outlaw, but they say he’s cut from different cloth than Bloody Gottrus. Gottrus is a killer and plunderer. Sandys, they say, has some kind of personal vendetta against the Knights-”

  Teffen bolted from the tree. His movement was so swift and sudden Roder missed his mouth and poked a sliver of cheese into his cheek.

  “What is it?”

  “I heard something. A horse.”

  Roder stood up, hand on his sword hilt. “Where?”

  “It came from that direction.” Teffen pointed down the gloomy trail from whence they’d come. He stiffened. “There!” he hissed. “Did you hear that?”

  Roder wasn’t about to admit he heard nothing. With no pretense of stealth he dragged his leg over the fallen tree and walked past Teffen to the middle of the path. His nonchalance evaporated when he spotted a dark gray figure far down the trail, silhouetted against the near-black tapestry of trees. It was a man on horseback, waiting there.