On the Banks of the River of Heaven

by Richard Parks

  He killed himself.

  Such a notion was hard to get a grasp on; Malthan had heard rumors of humans and suicide but it was almost beyond comprehension. What reason for departing this life early, with no promise of another? Ghouls didn’t live very long as a rule, the Ancient notwithstanding. As for despair, well, among ghouls it was pretty much a missing emotion. In his own curious longings Malthan almost thought he could grasp the idea of it, but the stark reality as shown in one man’s dead was nothing short of bewildering.

  Not knowing what else to do, Malthan actually considered burying the body, but the notion was so ridiculous that he almost laughed.

  Gurgash would truly know I’d lost my mind then.

  The horse could smell the wolves loitering nearby also and it jerked hard on the reins, its eyes rolling white with terror.

  “Don’t worry,” Malthan said. “We’re leaving. Wolves don’t like ghouls either.”

  The beast didn’t seem very reassured, but it followed Malthan’s lead willingly enough. Soon he heard the sound of the wolves closing in. It had been hard times for them, too, and if they preferred fresh kills they would not disdain carrion if available. Which was the main reason wolves and ghouls didn’t get along; time and again they became competitors.

  Malthan knew that the easy meal came first but that the wolves could be after the Lady herself soon enough. Malthan still couldn’t explain to himself why he cared, but he forced himself to hurry. The horse seemed grateful for the extra speed. Malthan rather thought the horse would be more content to gallop, if Malthan would care to ride him again, but when danger threatened Malthan felt much more secure moving on his own two good legs.

  The trail was much fresher now, yet the sun was an hour lower in the sky before a commotion ahead on the trail told Malthan he had found his quarry.

  “They were moving quickly, horse,” Malthan said. “But I think someone has caught them first.”

  Malthan found them in a small clearing; they huddled together on the far side, while an old man stood trembling but defiantly in front, waving a cudgel at the band of men approaching them. The men were ragged but well-armed, with a variety of edged weapons clearly salvaged or liberated from former owners.

  Brigands.

  Another hazard of the woods. Malthan didn’t blame them for it, especially. It was all about survival at heart, and a ghoul understood survival. It occurred to Malthan that his quest was about the things he didn’t understand, but there was no time to think about that now. Malthan dropped the reins after giving the warhorse a quick reminder about the wolves waiting nearby, then positioned his shield and drew his sword.

  “Stop, knaves!”

  Malthan wasn’t sure if the challenge didn’t sound as silly to the bandits as it did to himself, but it had the desired effect. As one they turned their attention away from the travelers to Malthan, then they turned to look at each other as if doing a quick count. The answer came back at something like seven to one, which seemed to reassure them. They grinned, advancing, while one remained behind, apparently to make sure their prey didn’t escape in the meantime.

  “I’ll have his sword,” said a husky fellow at the head of the pack, and Malthan shrugged and gave it to him in a vicious overhand chop. The fellow blocked in plenty of time with his own blade, but it didn’t seem to matter. Malthan’s blow struck sparks as it pushed the fellow’s own blade deep back into his skull, and with the return stroke Malthan sent the man’s sprawling to the ground, where it twitched for several moments before finally going still.

  The others, not quite realizing what had just happened, pressed ahead. One struck at Malthan’s knees, another rushed forward to stab with a short lance. Malthan took the first blow on his shield, and cut off the head of the lance with his sword, shearing through the iron strapping holding the point in place. In short order the pieces of the next two attackers joined those of their leader on the ground.

  I think I’m getting the knack of this!

  Malthan knew he was fortunate that none of the brigands seemed to have the skill of Sir Dald. Still, three down in just over as many seconds wasn’t a bad accounting. The other three paused, and the fourth one guarding the travelers could only stare in consternation for a long moment.

  “Bloody he—” He didn’t finish. The old man used the distraction to swing his cudgel hard against the brigand’s bare skull and he went down without finishing his comment. That seemed to decide the matter; the survivors took to their heels and vanished into the forest. Malthan heard the noise of them for some time, but it was clear they were leaving the area in a hurry. Malthan, the immediate danger past, finally took a good hard luck at what he had done.

  Gurgash would think this well done, but somehow I do not. The flush of victory was fading fast. Malthan felt a little ill, and cursed himself for a weakling.

  The knot of travelers slowly unraveled as Malthan stood there, catching his breath, and Malthan finally was able to make out more detail. There were two older women in blue and white dresses, and a small boy wearing a tunic likewise of blue and white, evidently a page of some sort, but they got no more a cursory glance, for Malthan finally saw who they had been trying to shield.

  Even a ghoul would call her beautiful.

  Her hair was black and long, gathered in a single braid down her back; her skin paler than any female ghoul Malthan had ever seen. True, she was far too delicate by ghoul standards. Her nose was too small and her teeth were too small and well, she was just too small. Such a child born to a ghoul wouldn’t survive past its first Feeding; the other pups would tear the carcass away and she’d starve if she wasn’t killed outright. Human ways were clearly different, because she was here now, cared for and protected.

  Didn’t you just do the same?

  Malthan wasn’t sure where the thought came from, but there it was, and it was true, for all that he didn’t understand the reason. There didn’t seem to be a reason; so far Malthan had just done what he thought a human knight would do, and so far it had worked. Yet did he really understand humans that well? Especially when some of Sir Dald’s actions concerning the lady and her champion still didn’t make sense to him. Perhaps now he could find out.

  Malthan bowed in the Lady’s general direction. “I’m glad you are unhurt.”

  She stepped forward boldly. “Thanks to you, kind Sir. I’m Lady Jessyn of Westford.”

  Malthan bowed again. “Malthus of Darktomb . . . It’s a land far from here.”

  “However ominous your name, you must be thirsty after such work. If you’ll remove your helmet my servants will be glad to bring you a goblet.”

  Malthan quickly repeated the story of his “vow” to Lady Jessyn, who listened without interruption and then gave a wistful smile. “It is a knight’s nature to do such things, for all that they often seem to be very inconvenient for very little advantage . . . ” She looked away, and reddened just a bit. “I must apologize. Being the mistress of my own domain I tend to say what I think; my ladies assure me it’s not known as a virtue.”

  Malthan, who also thought the whole “oath for this and that” business rather silly, hastened to assure her that he was not insulted. She smiled at him. Malthan thought it was a fine smile, if not the sort he was used to. Ghoul women had fangs and looked rather different when they smiled. It always looked like—and usually was—a threat. Lady Jessyn’s smile did not look that way at all.

  “If you have Sir Palan’s armor, then you must have defeated Sir Dald at the bridge. My thanks; that one needed taking down a peg or two. Pray, can you tell me if you saw a young man alone in the woods? Sir Palan had gone seeking shelter for us.”

  “Protector . . . ” muttered the old man standing nearby, and he spit on the ground.

  Lady Jessyn glared at him and he looked away, chastened. “Mol, it’s true he was defeated, but he did his best.” She turned back to Malthan. “Did you see him? A young man, yellow hair?”

  Malthan didn’t know what to say, so he told th
e simple truth. “Lady, I am sorry to tell you that he is dead.”

  “Oh.” That was all she said. Malthan was a little puzzled at first; his beliefs about human feelings led him to think there might be more to it. Then he noticed that Lady Jessyn was swaying just slightly, like a willow in a gentle wind. Her two ladies-in-waiting picked up on the clues a little quicker. In a moment they were at her side, steadying her.

  To her credit, Lady Jessyn recovered quickly. After a few moments she gently disentangled herself and her two women stepped back. “I must crave your pardon again. Palan’s loss . . . I wasn’t prepared.”

  Malthan didn’t tell what he knew about the suicide. For some reason the words sounded wrong even as he thought them. “He—he was beset by wolves before I found him, and died bravely I’m sure. I regret I was unable to help. Did . . . did you love him?” Malthan regretted the words as soon as they were spoken. One of the ladies-in-waiting gasped and the other two servants stared at him as if he’d suddenly sprouted a tail. “Now I must ask your pardon,” Malthan said. “The question was ill-considered.”

  Nonetheless Lady Jessyn, who neither gasped nor stared, did seem to be considering it.

  “Love? No. He was a sweet fool and deserved better of life than his destiny proved. He had no more business with arms and armor than I do, yet his birth and his pride would allow no other course; he offered me aid when I needed it and did his best for me. I did not love him but I do mourn him, Sir Malthus.”

  Malthan spoke his next words straight from the heart, though it surprised him a little to think that a ghoul might have one. “If he strived to be more than he was,” Malthan said, “no one should fault him for that.”

  She smiled at him then, though there were tears in her eyes. “Nor do I . . . I’m afraid our ordeal has left me quite exhausted, Sir Malthus, and night is coming. Please accept our hospitality, such as our camp can afford. I must rest soon.”

  Malthan nodded. “Gladly accepted, but I’d advise making camp somewhere else. Those brigands doubtless had friends who will return. We’d best not be here.”

  No one disputed that. The servants broke camp and fetched the Lady’s palfrey. Malthan, seeing no other way out of it, had a quick chat with the dun warhorse—out of earshot of the others—and rode beside her until the scene of the fight and the bodies of the brigands were as far behind as daylight permitted. He was careful to stay far enough way just in case his breath or personal aroma was still an issue. He didn’t know what Lady Jessyn thought of it all, but he himself found the conversation they had on the way entirely fascinating.

  Malthan bathed in a nearby stream that night, in part out of worry about the smell but also in an attempt to shake off the effects of the wine. Though Malthan would not remove his helmet in the humans’ company he had taken a goblet with him on Lady Jessyn’s insistence. She apologized that it was poor travel fare, and watered at that, but Malthan found the effects more than a little disconcerting.

  Why are the stars moving?

  Malthan closed his eyes. The world didn’t spin quite so much then.

  “Shouldn’t you be keeping watch, or something?”

  Malthan opened one eye. Gurgash kneeled down on the bank of the stream, eyeing the armor with distaste and the bathing with something more like morbid fascination.

  “I spoke to a raven, and few night creatures; no one will approach the camp without my knowing . . . oh, do stop swaying like that.”

  “I’m not swaying! You are.” Gurgash picked up the goblet, sniffed it. “Did this do that to you?”

  “I think so. I know a little of the stuff purifies water. Apparently that water is more pure than most.”

  Gurgash sniffed. “Purify? What rubbish.”

  “Still, it is the custom among them.”

  “You’re not ‘them.’ ” Gurgash said. “For all that you’re copying outward appearance better than I expected.”

  Malthan smiled. “Was that something like a compliment?”

  Gurgash growled low. “Don’t be daft . . . or any more daft, that is. I couldn’t bear it.”

  “Why are you following me?” Malthan asked.

  Gurgash looked suspicious. “What do you mean?”

  “It was a simple question. You’ve been keeping close to me on this journey. Is it simple curiosity? Could it be you care what happens to me?”

  Gurgash drew himself up to his full height. “Don’t be stupid! Maybe you’ve forgotten what it means to be a ghoul?”

  Malthan shook his head. “Not in the least. You are my friend, and you and I both understand that friendship among ghouls simply means that we won’t try to tear each other’s heads off over a piece of carrion, and that we can hunt together, and that’s pretty much all it means. Don’t you agree?”

  “Yes,” Gurgash said grudgingly. “So?”

  “So why are you following me, Gurgash?”

  “In the vain hope that you’ll come to your senses so we can hunt together again. You . . . you’re good at hunting, when you set your mind to it.”

  Maybe it was the wine, but Malthan couldn’t help smiling. Coming from a ghoul, Gurgash’s admission was little short of an outburst of affection. “I like hunting with you, too, Gurgash.”

  “Then come home, you fool! You’ve made a few bodies. If we bring them back before the wolves get them the women will come to us for meat in a day or two.”

  “They’re not too large. Take a couple back yourself, and have fun. I’m not finished.”

  “By the Cold Stones, when will you be finished?!”

  “When I understand what I’m looking for. When I find it.”

  Malthan still didn’t know what it, was and thought his chances of understanding the whole mess were even less, but he still needed a reason to justify what he was doing, and a poor one was better than nothing. Gurgash just shook his head, and disappeared once more into the woods. Malthan watched him go.

  I wish I could explain, Gurgash. Friendship among ghouls is functional, useful. Friendship among humans seems to get them killed, and yet they still crave it. Maybe there’s something I could understand as a human that I don’t as a ghoul.

  Malthan couldn’t be human, but he could act like one and, perhaps, learn to think like one. He wasn’t sure what this might accomplish, if anything, but he just knew that he wasn’t done. Not yet.

  Malthan hid the armor and himself in a hollow tree, and settled in for the night.

  The old man named Mol was heating something over a fire the next morning. Some sort of porridge. There were oats involved, so far as Malthan could tell. The ladies were getting dressed in a small tent nearby; Malthan could hear and smell them.

  “Breakfast, Sir Malthus?” Mol asked, but Malthan politely declined. He’d found a few wild blueberries and was in fact very hungry, but the oat mash appealed even less than the wild fruit and nuts he’d been subsisting on for the last day or so. It was at once more decayed than what he had been eating, yet not nearly decayed enough. Malthan felt his stomach rumble.

  I don’t know how much longer I can do this . . .

  It took Malthan a moment to realize that Mol was speaking to him. “Your pardon, but I didn’t catch all of that.”

  Mol sighed. “I said that I’d like to know what happened to Sir Palan.”

  “The wolves . . . ”

  “Was a very nice story. I want the truth. Don’t worry, Sir Malthus. It’s just the two of us; the ladies won’t be with us for a moment. I know the wolves are vicious in these woods, but an attack in broad daylight?”

  Malthan met the old man’s eyes for several long moments. Neither looked away. Malthan finally sighed. “It’s true that I found him too late. He killed himself in the woods. I didn’t think I should tell Lady Jessyn that. Was I wrong?”

  Mol grunted. “He told us he was going back to Sir Dald, to beg, plead, or indenture himself for the return of the armor and a chance to redeem himself. I guess he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Wrong? No, it was kind of you. No re
ason to tarnish the poor lad’s memory.”

  “He’s dead and can no longer suffer. How he’s remembered is important?”

  Mol just looked at him for a moment. “You’re a strange one. Wouldn’t we all like to be remembered well?”

  It was a new thought for a ghoul. Malthan thought about it for a moment, and it gave rise to another thought.

  Something about a legacy, if that was the right word. Memory. Ghouls understood memory; it was one of the few things ghouls and humans had in common. This was a new use for memory, in Malthan’s experience. He needed to think about it some more, but he also needed to know more.

  Malthan knew he was treading on dangerous ground, but he knew the ladies would not stay in their tent much longer and he might not get another chance. “Of-of course, but remember I’m from a distant country, and our customs may be different. I have to ask you something that’s been troubling me, Sir Mol.”

  Mol laughed. “First, I’m no ‘sir,” nor ever desired to be. I’ve been around that lot enough to see what’s entailed and want no part of it, even if my birth allowed. Second, there’s something troubling about you, Sir Malthus; I think there’s more to you than we know and that worries me.”

  Malthan felt a chill, but Mol held up his hand. “Do not concern yourself with an old man’s fretting. For the service you’ve done both to my lady and to that feckless boy Sir Palan, you’ve shown yourself to be a good man, whatever else you may be. If there’s a question I can answer for you, I will.”

  Malthan took a slow breath, let it out. “Sir Dald’s vow was to contest that bridge. By taking Sir Palan’s armor he put Lady Jessyn’s party at risk. Isn’t it also a knight’s duty to protect the weak?”

  Mol smiled, showing missing teeth. “It may be different in your land, but here it’s the sort of contradiction knights are always making for themselves. Sir Dald’s honor demanded that he challenge Sir Palan, and take his armor when he won. To let Palan keep his armor would be an insult to the boy, which Sir Dald did not intend. That this also put Lady Jessyn at risk was a breach of Sir Dald’s chivalry. He had to make a choice, since he could not serve both honor and chivalry. He chose honor.”