Will Power

by A. J. Hartley

  “Is that all there is?” she demanded with slow patience.

  “Eh . . . no. There are a couple of small knives, a metal pot, a spoon, a cloth of dried herbs, and half a bulb of garlic. Oh, and a small onion. Great!” I enthused.

  “Great,” she echoed halfheartedly, striding back out into the forest. I followed, nibbling contentedly on a sliver of the smoked. “Probably a hunter’s camp,” she remarked uninterested.

  “I left the pot,” I said, guiltily. “I only took the cheese and the garlic. Come on, don’t be so damned moral. My need is greater than whoever can get hold of this stuff.”

  “Whatever, Will,” she remarked with a slightly sour expression. “But keep that stuff downwind of me and don’t come breathing on me after you’ve eaten it.”

  Fat chance, I thought. If it was only a matter of giving up garlic and onions, I’d have been living on celery for months now. Well, probably.

  I was just pondering the wholly academic question of which of my appetites would have won out if I had been given the option when Renthrette’s horse turned sideways abruptly and pattered to a halt.

  “What? . . .” I began, but she waved me into silence with a sudden gesture.

  She turned and hissed, “Get off the path!”

  She led the way, pushing her mount into the trees off to the right. I followed, looking wildly around but seeing nothing. Then, as I slid from the back of my horse, landing awkwardly on my left ankle, I heard voices coming from up ahead. I couldn’t hear words, and the sound fluctuated as it carried on the breeze, but the language raised the hair on my neck. It was caustic and abrasive, dark and spiked like the head of a mace: goblins.

  My horse flinched and I patted it desperately, pushing it farther into a thicket of tangled leaves and branches. Renthrette had already tethered hers and was on her way back, axe in hand in a way reminiscent of her brother Garnet, her eyes cautious and resolute like an animal’s. She slipped furtively past me and crouched behind the gnarled and heavy trunk of an oak. I bit my lip hard till the blood ran in my mouth, and pressed my horse further into cover.

  There were four of them, dark and squat, armed with knives and long spears. Two of them wore half-helms, the others had hoods of leather. They were talking among themselves and laughing: nasal, rasping laughs which creased their eyes to nothing and set their heavy jaws lolling. Their skin was a grayish-yellow and thick, almost scaly, snake-like. Their limbs were short and powerful. I swallowed the blood in my mouth and froze, squatted in the dirt beside Renthrette, one hand on my crossbow, the other braced against the tree trunk. Renthrette looked at me and her face, though blank, seemed somehow to ask what I thought we should do. They would pass within fifteen feet of us in less than ten seconds. I held my breath.

  Then one of the horses snorted. The goblins reacted immediately, their conversation evaporating in an instant as they went stock still, eyes and ears scanning the woodland. One of them paused and then began to inch along the path toward us, head down and spear horizontal. Renthrette tensed like a cat poised to spring. I glanced down at my weapon and stretched my index finger to the trigger. The first goblin’s yellow-green eyes met mine and his mouth fell open in a cry of warning.

  I tried to aim, but Renthrette leaped in front of me.

  She bounded out onto the path from the other side of the tree, the axe held behind her, ready to strike. He barely saw her before her blow connected. He screamed and fell forward. I jumped to my feet and leveled the crossbow at the next, whose eyes were on Renthrette. He wheeled his spear toward me too late and the bolt hit him between shoulder and neck.

  Two more. Renthrette cut at one with her axe and it bit into the goblin’s spear, breaking it cleanly. He gripped the top half of the shaft with its metal tip like a shortsword and swung it at her. Simultaneously, the last closed on her and she took a step back. The crossbow was too slow to load and I dropped it, pulling a knife from my belt. It felt small and inadequate, but I had to do something.

  Those creatures, I thought, must not touch her.

  One of them was glancing warily around for other attackers.

  I nodded pointedly, my eyes staring across the path and into the trees. The goblin closest to me, a thin, gray-skinned creature brandishing a scimitar, caught the glance but did nothing. I felt my bluff had been called. I glanced from the goblin back into the forest behind him and shouted—quite convincingly given how unoriginal the idea was—“Now!”

  The goblin spun in the direction I was staring, raising his blade, and I launched myself at him, knife extended.

  The leap was poor and I fell short, managing only to gash his leg as I fell. He shrieked with surprise nonetheless and collided awkwardly with the other one who, thinking he was under attack, stabbed blindly with the remains of his spear. The point caught his fellow just above the waist, bringing him to his knees as Renthrette flung herself at the other. They fell together, each clawing for the handle of the axe which had been torn free in the fall. The gray one, sensing I was upon him, turned and looked up. The blade of my knife was already sweeping toward him and his eyes met mine as it stabbed home through his vest. Almost simultaneously, Renthrette seized the axe, raised it and brought it down hard. There was a sickening splitting sound like a bursting melon, then silence.

  I sat on the ground breathing hard.

  “That was a terrible idea,” said Renthrette after she got her breath back, “that let’s-pretend-there-are-more-of-us thing. I couldn’t believe you actually tried that.”

  “It worked, didn’t it?” I reposted.

  “Barely,” she answered. “It’s a good thing the goblins weren’t exactly crack troops.”

  I gave her a sardonic look. I still hadn’t got to her level of casualness when it came to carnage, and the idea that someone had, however briefly, really wanted to kill me, always left me a little disoriented.

  “Never mind. With a bit of luck we’ll get ambushed by some real pros later in the day,” I remarked.

  “They must have been a patrol, but they were pretty damn casual given the fact that they were in enemy territory,” she mused, ignoring me. She picked up one of the dead goblin’s spears and looked it over critically. “Odd,” she said.

  “What?”

  “See this little crosspiece just below the head? That’s to stop it going in too deep. It’s a hunting spear. Which means they’re either just using whatever weapons they can steal regardless of their purpose—always possible for the likes of them, I suppose. . . .”

  “Or?”

  “Or they weren’t a military patrol at all.”

  “Hold it,” I said, getting to my feet. “You’re saying they were here hunting for food?”

  “There probably isn’t much that lives on their side of the river. Here there are probably deer, wild boar maybe. It’s probably their cheese that you have in your pockets.”

  “So you don’t think they were looking for us?”

  “I wouldn’t have thought so, no.”

  “Well, that’s good,” I said. “I suppose. Still, we had to attack. After all, goblins are goblins, right?”

  “Of course,” Renthrette answered, but she didn’t look at me, and seemed strangely preoccupied.

  We both fell silent and got on with readying our horses. We didn’t make eye contact at all for a while, though I can’t say what was going on in Renthrette’s mind. I’m not really sure what I was thinking, but there was something, a feeling of anticlimax or uncertainty. I think we both sensed it in each other but chose to keep quiet, holding the feeling at arm’s length as if we were warding off an unpredictable dog.

  The forest ended quite suddenly two days later, and Phasdreille—the White City—was visible as soon as we stepped out of the trees. It was still a few miles off but it lay on lower ground and was spread out before us, gleaming pale and beautiful in the afternoon sun. We halted and looked at it, silent and hardly breathing. From here it looked sculpted out of alabaster, walled and towered like the citadel in a f
airy tale. I had seen walled cities before but they always seemed so purposeful and strong. This place looked effortlessly unassailable, as imposing as Cresdon or Ironwall, but with a grace, an unearthly dignity that sparkled on its white stone and flashed off the glass in its windows like sunlight on a waterfall. It looked like a city such as might exist above the clouds, ruled by a benign monarch whose daughters sent their suitors on quests for dragons and treasure . . . an impossible place.

  “Now if we can’t get a decent piece of beef and some strong ale there,” I remarked, “there’s a problem.”

  But my flippancy was strained and felt curiously inappropriate. Renthrette just stared off toward the white towers as if lost in a dream, or perhaps in a memory of childhood, when such places seemed plausible.

  “It’s breathtaking,” she whispered. “Perfect.”

  And, as my cynicism failed to kick in, I nodded.

  We were there before sundown and the light had yellowed, turning the city to gold, which warmed and deepened as we reached a long, ornamented bridge. This spanned a wide moat filled by the Snowborne and it was broad and fair, supported on smooth arches with carved capitals and lined with marble balustrades. At its head was a gatehouse, with a pair of turrets filled with tall warriors with long, pale hair that rippled with their cloaks in the breeze.

  “Who comes from Eventor?” called one of them.

  “Renthrette and William from Stavis,” called my companion, who always rose to occasions like this, “friends to the fair folk and to Sorrail. We seek aid and bring news from the mountains.”

  A door opened and three or four of them emerged.

  “You have been looked for,” said one. “Sorrail has been here many days and is expecting you. Welcome to Phasdreille, the White City. Enter, before it grows dark, and seek him out in the house of the king. We will send word.”

  The gates were framed with iron, burnished to a high shine, and paneled with a pale wood inlaid with brass, though whether this was decorative or defensive, I could not say. They opened easily, despite their great weight, and we walked our horses into the barbican and onto the twilit bridge without another word. Ahead of us, a rider cantered off across the bridge toward the gatehouse of the city, and we followed, gazing down to the river and up to the great, pale walls in an awed silence. At the far side we passed through another pair of imposing doors and entered the town.

  Even with the onset of evening, the streets seemed bright and mythically fair, the city holding an air of serenity, as unlike the squalid bustle I had been used to in Cresdon as could be imagined. There was no one else about, but the city felt cleansed rather than deserted. All was quiet and peaceful, as if the very walls were watching paternally over residents who were sleeping or gathered around their hearths with their families, watching as they had for centuries.

  Sorrail met us at the entrance to the king’s palace. He was handsome and smiling, pleased to see us, but he stood atop the little flight of marble steps with formal reserve. With him was an entourage of some sort, men and women dressed in vivid silks and adorned with bracelets and necklaces in which shone precious stones. They hovered at his back, their eyes upon us.

  “You are most welcome to Phasdreille, home of the fair folk,” said Sorrail in a rolling, modulated voice that was addressed to those at his back as well as to those in front of him. “And to the court of King Halmir, son of Velmir, you are welcome, too. Enter and feast with us. Let us find you new raiment fitting to this place, and then you can tell us your news. For as the diamond should be cut, polished, and set in gold to show off its quality, so should the doers of virtue be clad in wealth and beauty so that their worth shines forth.”

  At this slightly odd remark, there was a smattering of applause from those clustered around him. Their smiles flexed and deepened.

  “Er . . . thanks,” I said. “I could use a change and a bite to eat.”

  There was a momentary pause, a series of fractional glances between them, and then more simpering smiles. If I didn’t know they were glad to see us, I’d say we were being condescended to. Sorrail bowed carefully at the waist, nonchalantly adding a little flourish of the hand that invited us in: very polished. He was barely recognizable as the ranger who had met us on the road.

  Just as we were ascending the stairs, a distant trumpet call echoed through the air. Everyone paused and it was answered by another, closer this time.

  “It seems,” said Sorrail, “that our horsemen have returned, and in triumph.”

  His tone was low, amused rather than exuberant, as if he’d just heard that a friend had won a few coins at dice. The ripple through the entourage matched his own contented swagger. I shot Renthrette a bewildered glance. Her eyes were narrowed, confused, even surprised, but further speculation was abandoned as the drumming of horse hooves swelled to a deafening pitch. The courtyard before the palace filled with fifty or sixty blond riders, caped with white, fluttering cloaks and armed with silver-tipped lances. As another smattering of polite applause broke out from the assembly of the steps, I saw one of the riders who was not uniformed as the others. His helm was full and great horns grew menacingly from each side. He bore a heavy axe, a round, crimson shield, and sat astride a great white charger. His face was pale, almost white, and his hair, when he removed the great and terrifying helm, was short and brownish. He glanced toward us and his eyes shone green as emeralds.

  “Garnet!” I exclaimed. Renthrette was already running toward her brother, who swung himself to earth easily, smiling. There they embraced as the unit’s captain ascended the stairs and bowed to Sorrail. I left them to their reports and hurried after Renthrette.

  “Hell’s teeth,” I exclaimed, laughing aloud. “I never thought I’d be this pleased to see you!”

  “Likewise,” he grinned over his sister’s shoulder. He extended his strong, thin hand and I clasped it briefly.

  “I had heard you were around,” he said, “but we’ve had no news since you set out to rescue Orgos and Mithos.”

  “How long have you been here?” asked Renthrette.

  “Almost as long as you have, I think. I laid low in the Hide for a couple of days and then took a horse and whatever I could carry and came after you. When I got to the Black Horse I found you had already gone on ahead, but some ambassador chap said he could lead me to you if I served as his escort for a few miles. I’m not sure what happened next. I think I fell asleep in the saddle or something, I don’t know. It doesn’t really make any sense, but when I woke I was in sight of this place and there was no sign of the ambassador. I’ve been here ever since and, after Sorrail brought news of the rest of the party, I’ve been riding with the armies of Phasdreille against goblin encampments this side of the river.”

  “Any sign of Lisha?” Renthrette asked.

  “None,” said Garnet. “I don’t really know where we are, let alone where she might be. Until Sorrail arrived, I thought I was by myself. Still,” he added with a smile at the horsemen around him, “there are worse places to be. I mean, I missed you all and everything, but this place . . . It’s just so, I don’t know, right. It’s like I should have been born here, or something. God, Renthrette, you are going to love it here. You’ll never want to leave.”

  This last remark troubled me. Don’t get me wrong: You couldn’t fault the city. It gleamed with nobility and courage and light and truth and, well, fairness in every sense. In other words, it made concrete all that Garnet and Renthrette lived for. Here they were no longer the principled few struggling against a dark, self-interested, and vicious world. Here they were part of the majority and could be vicious on its behalf. Nor, I had to admit, could I really fault Sorrail. He was everything he had first seemed to be, and if Renthrette looked at him as the best thing since cold steel, I could hardly blame her. I had been a little confused by his odd, courtly greeting to us earlier and by the perfectly decked out little band that had been hanging on his exquisitely tailored coattails, but I suppose that was just the way things work
ed here. No, nothing had really shaken my faith in the place or its people but Garnet’s rapturous enthusiasm for them.

  You see, Garnet is about the worst judge of pretty much anything that I have ever come across. He couldn’t tell a pint of stout from a cream sherry, and if he ever swore that someone was a great fellow, said fellow would probably slip something lethal in your pint (or sherry) before the night was out. This isn’t just sour grapes on my part. Garnet and I have not always seen eye to eye, I confess, but he can be very useful to have around. If you need someone hacked to pieces, he’s your man. Tell him that the friendly stranger across the room made a lewd remark about his sister, hand him an axe, then sit back and watch the fun. But analyze something and come to a shrewd conclusion? When camels write poetry.

  Garnet is a terrible reader. I don’t mean he couldn’t pick up a menu and spot the salad; in fact, like his sister, he could wade through the most complex legal documents and figure out their details with alarming rigor and clearheadedness. What he couldn’t do was read between the lines. Just like Renthrette, who had told me that the apparition in the forest hadn’t meant anything, Garnet took things at face value. Neither of them looked too closely or asked too many questions, since that took valuable time away from getting their weapons bloody. They would leave this place and its rosy hue uncriticized because it offered such a neat solution to all their ethical problems. Here goodness was built in the stone of the city and the flesh of its people; across the river was evil. Their mission was clear.

  Too clear for a charlatan, actor, dramatist, cheat, and liar like me to swallow without at least looking more closely at the label.

  But what really burned me up was that they seemed to be right.

  The royal palace came alive before dawn. Unfortunately, since we were due to meet the king today, that meant that the banging on the door at half past five in the bloody morning was supposed to be taken seriously. The journey had taken its toll and I had slept like a particularly exhausted log right until Garnet started bludgeoning my door down.