Then he abruptly stopped traveling at all, having arrived in a large thornbush. Any concerns about the Black Weasel’s orders were put aside until he had dealt with the rather more immediate problems posed by several hundred inch-long, needle-sharp thorns and the accompanying leaves and woodwork.
He did hear the sound of two large objects thudding onto the road, and assumed that his companions were following instructions and had dropped from the tree to subdue the reluctant shepherd boy. He supposed they would have no trouble. The lad had to be a bit winded after heaving a fifteen-stone man into a thornbush that stood a good five yards from the roadway, and the other two Bush-dwellers knew that their target was not the harmless oaf he had first appeared.
He concentrated on disentangling himself while retaining a maximum amount of unpunctured skin.
He did not really pay attention to the voices exchanging words, or the thumps as they exchanged something a little heavier than words, or the clatter as the Bush-dwellers took up their staves and the shepherd boy snatched up a fallen treelimb to defend himself.
Eventually, though, he was able to stand upright on his own two feet without any direct contact with sharp objects. He brushed himself off, lightly touched the innumerable scratches on his cheeks, shuddered at the discovery of how close some had come to his eyes, and then turned to look at the others.
He was astonished to find the battle still raging. Ochovar—his official nickname of Off-White Chipmunk had failed to stick, as had many of the later coinages—was swinging his staff wildly, warding off the shepherd boy’s attack; the other Bush-dweller, Wennedel, sat on the ground nearby, clearly dazed, his staff in pieces beside him.
“Hey!” the former resident of the thornbush called. “You can’t do that!”
“Why not?” Dunwin asked, startled. He turned an inquiring glance toward the speaker, an$l promptly received a solid whack across the back of his head from Ochovar’s weapon. He staggered.
“Because there are three of us, all highly trained in every form of combat, and only one of you, and you're just a poor ignorant shepherd boy,” the Bush-dweller explained, as Ochovar drew back for another swing.
“Oh,” Dunwin said. Ochovar hesitated, staff held ready. His companion nodded; humanity was all very well, but there was no point in taking stupid chances.
Ochovar put everything he had into it, coming up from the knees, his whole weight in the swing; even so, Dunwin managed to roll with it somewhat.
He still went down, facefirst. Ochovar promptly sat on him, staff held ready for another whack.
Wennedel, moving stiffly, joined Ochovar. The third Bush-dweller approached cautiously, then sat down crosslegged in front of Dunwin’s face. He waited, picking thorns from his hose, and studied the shepherd's face.
There was something rather familiar about it.
When the boy's eyes showed signs of focusing, the Bush-dweller said, “As I was saying, lad, you show promise, but you clearly don’t stand a chance against the likes of us. I like you, though, so I tell you what we’ll do. We’ll take you to meet our leader, the mighty Black Weasel himself, and we’ll let him decide what to do with you. You tell him about your lost sheep, and maybe he'll even help you find her.’’
Dunwin blinked. “Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place?’’ he asked. He got to his feet, sending Ochovar and Wennedel tumbling, and picked up his fallen tree branch. “Let's go,’’ he said.
Ochovar looked at the spokesman; Wennedel looked at Ochovar. “How hard did you hit him?’’ Wennedel whispered.
“As hard as I bloody well could, of course!’’ Ochovar hissed back. “What do you think?”
“I think maybe you knocked the brains right out of him, only he hasn’t noticed yet,’’ Wennedel replied.
The spokesman shook his head. “No, I think he was always like that,” he said quietly. “I mean, who'd be chasing a lost sheep here in the forest?’’ Aloud, he asked, “What’s your name, lad?’’
“Dunwin, ’ ’ Dunwin said. “After my uncle that got himself hanged.’’
“That figures,’’ the spokesman muttered. Aloud, he said, "Good to meet you, Dunwin. I'm called the Blue Badger." He held out a hand to shake, but Dunwin didn't notice it, and after a moment it was withdrawn. The Badger frowned slightly.
"We better blindfold him," Ochovar said. "I don't know if the boss will want to keep this one."
"An excellent point," the Badger agreed. "Who's got the cloth?"
After a moment of embarrassed silent exploration, the Badger let out a sigh. "Well, this tunic was ruined anyway," he said, tearing a strip of thorn-pierced fabric from his own garment.
Dunwin made no protest as the blindfold was tied in place; he had no reason to, since the multiple thornholes left him well able to see. He saw no need to mention this.
Thus prepared, the three Bush-dwellers led the lad through the forest by secret paths—Dunwin knew they were secret paths, because the letters carved on the trees marking the route clearly said secret path, do not enter, bold bush-dwellers only—until they arrived in a small clearing, at the center of which stood an ancient beech tree. Beneath the beech stood a large, badly weathered chair that had apparently been gilded once; lounging comfortably in the chair was a rather tired-looking man dressed entirely in black, holding a golden goblet.
"Yes, Badger?" the man in the chair said wearily.
"Oh, Black Weasel, brave and dashing heroic leader of the Bold Bush-dwellers in their valiant struggle against the abominable Gorgorian oppressors who have plundered our fair kingdom," the Blue Badger said, "we captured this fellow on our way back from town."
"Did you get the salt? And the nails?"
"Yes, Black Weasel. Wennedel—I mean, the Crimson Slug has them."
The Black Weasel nodded. "Good. Now, about this lad you caught—is this one signing up for a year's service, or is he a recruit? Or are you being playful again?"
"This one's not decided, Black Weasel," the Badger said. “He shows a real talent for brawling, but he's only interested in finding a lost sheep."
The Black Weasel sighed. “Is he even an Old Hydran- gean? All the best brawlers these days seem to be runaway Gorgorians."
“Of course I’m Old Hydrangean," Dunwin said, offended.
“I think he is, Black Weasel," the Badger interjected. “His face has the look; I’d say there’s even a faint resemblance to yourself.' ’
As he spoke, the Blue Badger took a closer look. There certainly was a resemblance, he saw. Dunwin was bigger across the chest and his skin perhaps a shade darker, but his features definitely echoed the Black Weasel's, and the hair was the same lustrous black.
Mere coincidence, of course, the Badger told himself.
“Well, that's a good start, anyway," the Black Weasel said. “You're a shepherd, boy?"
“That's right, sir."
“Well, I am the Black Weasel, brave and dashing heroic leader of the Bold Bush-dwellers in their valiant struggle against the abominable Gorgorian oppressors who have plundered our fair kingdom."
“Pleased to meet you, I’m sure." Dunwin was unsure whether he should bow, and decided not to bother. “My name’s Dunwin. I'm looking for Bernice."
“Bernice is your lost sheep?"
“Yes, sir."
“Well, we don't see very many sheep around here; what does she look like?"
Dunwin hesitated.
“Well," he said, “she's very big, for a sheep. She’s green, and sort of shiny, and all over scales, sort of like a lizard, or maybe a water snake."
The Black Weasel's attention had wandered somewhat: he had been staring off across the clearing, but now he sat up straight and stared directly at Dunwin.
“Your sheep is green and scaly?" he asked.
Dun win nodded unhappily.
Ochovar smothered a snicker. The Blue Badger shrugged expressively. Wennedel tapped his head significantly.
The Black Weasel pondered this for a long moment, then turned
to the Blue Badger. “How good a brawler?” he demanded.
The Blue Badger said, "Pretty good. He threw me in a thorn bush, then took on both my men, their quarterstaves against a tree branch, and had Wennedel down before Ochovar caught him a sound buffet.”
The Black Weasel drummed his fingers on one arm of his chair, thinking; then he announced, "Dunwin, my lad, we’re here to aid all good Old Hydrangeans. We’ll find your sheep for you! But first, we ask that in exchange, you join our merry band. We’ll train you in fighting, we'll give you a fine sword, and when the time is ripe, you'll join us in the battle against the foul Gorgorians! What do you say?”
Dunwin looked around. He noticed that in addition to the three who had captured him, and the Black Weasel himself, there were at least a dozen other green- and brown- clad men watching from among the surrounding trees.
"You’ll help me find Bernice?” he asked.
"My word on it,” the Black Weasel said. "If any of us ever see a green, scaly sheep, or hear word of one, we’ll let you know at once.”
Dunwin glanced around at the watching warriors again, then shrugged. "All right,” he said, "I'll do it.”
Chapter Twenty
"You know," said King Gudge to the freshly severed head before him, "it’s all right if I say stuff like that about Prince Arbol—the unnatural brat’s my son, after all—but that doesn't mean it’s all right for just anyone to go around making personal remarks about the spunkless little worm." He belched eloquently and tossed the head backward over his right shoulder.
Lady Ubri caught it in midflight and brought it back. "The left shoulder, my liege," she murmured. "Left for luck."
"Stupid woman's nonsense," the king snarled, glowering at the head.
"If you don't believe me, you can look it up yourself, Your Majesty; the facts are documented. Toss it over the right shoulder and we get rain."
"Damned girlie mumbo-jumbo." Gudge gave Ubri a dirty look, but he did toss the head over the rainless shoulder. Rain was nasty stuff; gave a man a bath whether he wanted one or not.
The remainder of Gudge's royal council sat in palelipped silence through the whole of this Gorgorian ritual. They had been shocked into utter stillness, to a man, when the late Lord Kaber hadxnade his last, unfortunate remark, namely: "Boys will be boys, as you say, Your Majesty, and even though the brothel which our beloved Prince Arbol’s Companions raided was one of my properties I am less distressed by the fact that I lost so much income last night as by the fact that your own dear son was not a member of the raiding party, and I do wonder—in light of how much time the young man seems to spend in the company of his food taster—if perhaps his, ah, inclinations ought to be looked into, with an eye to the future and the ultimate continuation of your own royal line which will not be continued, as you well know, if the prince does not show at least some casual interest in the female of the species."
It was a very long last remark, one which Gudge edited curtly with his sword.
"There is nothing wrong with my son!" the king roared, slamming his fist onto the council table top.
"Of course not, Your Majesty," came the instant reply from Lord Viridis. He was seated next to Lord Kaber's headless corpse and had suddenly developed a nasty nervous tic in his right cheek. "Not a thing. Perfectly normal young man."
The king shook his head. "Why he's got to spend all that time with that masked-up food taster fellow, though—I can't say I like it."
"You could kill the food taster, if you want." The suggestion came from a councilor who always chose a seat well out of sword's reach. He was therefore one of Gudge’s bolder advisors.
"Think I don't know that?" the king bellowed. He chucked his empty goblet at the upstart.
The goblet was made of solid gold set with heavy jewels and large enough to hold a full bottle of wine. It made a lovely, ringing p-toinnnng! as it struck the outspoken councilor right in the middle of his forehead. He managed a shaky, "I th-thank Your Ma-Majesty for noticing this unwo- unworthy servant," before he slid under the board.
"The trouble with having royal advisors," the king muttered half to himself, "is that they're always trying to give a man advicel” He was still grumbling and grousing when Lady Ubri slipped unnoticed from the hall.
Lady Ubri knew that it was a normal part of living for human beings to sometimes wish they were someone or something other than what they’d been born. Some men wished they could become women, some women yearned to be men, many hard-working peasants envied the easy life of the cat by the fire while the starving stray desired nothing more than to be a peasant with a roof over his head and a belly that was filled at least some of the time.
At the moment, Lady Ubri wished the unthinkable: She wished she were King Gudge.
It wasn’t about power, for once. No, what Ubri envied her royal lord was his brain. It didn’t make sense, at first glance. Indeed, when the wish initially showed itself, her own fine mind had shrieked, “What brain?” But Ubri knew that Gudge had one; it was just very, very small. There was no room in it for doubts. He knew what was what, and acted accordingly. If he didn’t like the way matters stood, he killed people until things got better. And he was never confused about his son, Prince Arbol.
Lady Ubri wished she could say the same. Her plot— her wonderful, shiny, simple plot to seduce the prince and rule the kingdom through him—had gone splat. If she didn’t know any better, she would swear that Prince Arbol had a plot of his own, a plot called: Let’s See How Fast I Can Drive Lady Ubri Crazy.
The Gorgorian noblewoman ground her pretty teeth as she recalled, in painful detail, every single encounter she had had with the prince. She had been very lucky, managing to get the boy alone a score of times. Unfortunately, her luck only went as far as giving her the opportunity to seduce him. Half the time, he had been either cold to her advances or just not aware of them. The other half she imagined he was warming up nicely, but what good did it do her? Despite his obvious interest in her charms, the prince kept fidgeting around as if he had somewhere else to be and a lot of important people waiting for him to be there.
“He toys with me,” Ubri murmured darkly. “It is like skizbrax, the happy game of my childhood, where you hang an enemy naked from a tree in a pit, using a noose too slack to strangle him immediately. Then you release a starving wolverine, only you keep yanking the rope every time the beast leaps. ” She could not help but smile over the innocent pastimes of her youth.
A hard glint came into the Gorgorian lady’s eye. Hers was a stubborn race. If they hadn’t been so stubborn, they would still have been sitting around dung fires in the middle of the Gorgor Plateau, waiting to see what happened next. Stubbornness had gotten them where they were, off that damned plateau and into a palace, and stubbornness was going to get Lady Ubri onto the palace throne or she’d know the reason why.
“Quitters never wear crowns,’’ she told herself, and set out once more to locate the vacillating prince.
“Well?’’ said Prince Arbol as Wulfrith stole back into the royal heir’s private rooms. “Did you fool them?’’
Wulfrith threw himself heavily down in a chair by the fireside and wiped cold sweat from his brow. “Let’s just say I tried.’’
Arbol dragged a stool nearer Wulfrith’s chair and assumed an eager, listening pose. “Tell!’’
' ‘Well, your Companions aren’t as stupid as they look. ’'
“Who could be that stupid?’’ Arbol commented pleasantly.
“When I told them I wasn’t going to take part in the fighting practice today because I had the case of the Gorgorian Sliders, most of them just grunted and nodded. A few of them—the ones with no teeth?—even fell to their knees and said a thanksgiving prayer.” Wulfrith pondered, then asked, “I wonder why such young fellows don’t have any teeth left?”
Arbol just grinned.
“Anyway, I said I only wanted to watch. Then up comes this big bastard, Pentstemon by name, and he says to me, ‘So it is true; you heard I
bought this new sword and you’re afraid of it!’ ”
“What new sword?” Arbol’s brows knotted.
"Oh, a silly thing, not worth much, really. It seems he bought it off a Gorgorian woman who claimed it was magic." As he spoke, Wulfrith felt a throb of professional curiosity as to the Gorgorian method for enchanting cold steel, but in his present circumstances he was unable to pursue that course of inquiry. Clootie had always been more inclined to study the effects of magic on living beings, and Wulfrith followed suit. Privately he resolved to check out the royal library as soon as possible. Perhaps there were some books down there that covered the subject.
And if not, there were always those . . . other books that did quite well at wucovering a number of far more interesting subjects.
"Well, go on!" Prince Arbol demanded. "So Pentste- mon said I was afraid to face this so-called magic sword of his. Then what?"
"Then ..." Wulfrith took a deep breath. It wasn’t a comfortable memory. "Then I had to prove he was wrong, of course. I mean, that’s what you would’ve done, isn’t it?"
"You bet I would!" Arbol leaned closer. "So you fought him, Wulfie?"
"It is what you'd have done. I challenged him to a match on foot, swords only, with just a couple of the Companions present to act as field marshals. Neither one of us wanted more witnesses."
Arbol nodded. "Magic swords are contraband. If Pentstemon's blade did anything spectacular, the other Companions wouldn't want to be hauled up before Dad as witnesses." A wistful, childlike expression came into the prince’s eyes. "Did the sword do anything spectacular?"
"No." Wulfrith closed his eyes and once again saw himself standing in the little courtyard, facing off against Pentstemon. The courtyard adjoined the palace dungheaps and there was a good supply of blowflies buzzing about. It had taken the work of a moment for Wulfrith’s magic to attract one of them to perch unnoticed on the tip of Pentste- mon’s sword. Then, a swiff transformation spell uttered just as the burly youth raised his weapon, and whoops!, over backwards Pentstemon tumbled with a fat, startled albatross clutching the edge of his blade with wings and flippered feet. The bird flew off, bewildered, and Wulfrith grabbed his chance. He had his own sword pointed at Pentstemon's throat before the other lad could rally.
Watt-Evans, Lawrence - Novel 06 Page 17