by Simon Haynes
Lord Varnish bowed deeply, and left the queen to her breakfast.
— ♦ —
"We could try wading across," said Father M.
"Hurm swim."
Runt glanced up at the two humans towering over him, then cast a sour look at the swift-moving river bisecting the broad path. "It might only be waist-deep to you, but to me that's liquid death."
"Hurm carry."
"Forget it. Last time we tried that, you bent over to pick up some gold ring lying on the riverbed. I was coughing water out of my lungs for hours … and the damned ring wasn't even real gold. Anyway, if you think that mule is going to swim a river you're even dumber than you look."
At the sight of the water, the mule had backed away from the bank, wide-eyed and tugging at its halter. Actually, Runt's expression was pretty similar.
"There has to be a bridge," said Father M.
"I bet there is, but we all know how this goes. Either it's up-river, and we spend half the day walking in the wrong direction, or we find the bridge but there's a band of robbers camped at one end, and they steal everything we've got, cut our throats and toss us in the river. Either way, we never get to the other side."
"Did you get out the wrong end of your cot this morning?" asked Father M mildly.
"I'm just getting a bit fed up with this whole adventuring lark," said Runt sourly. "What's wrong with spending a few days in a tavern, eating and drinking? Why do we have to walk for miles and miles when—"
"I think that's an exaggeration of sorts," said Father M. He gestured at the city walls, which were about five hundred metres away. "We've only been walking ten minutes."
"Yeah, and that's another thing." Runt stamped his foot on the wide path. "Who builds a road out of the city and forgets to put up a damned bridge?"
"Maybe it was swept away. Maybe it was struck by a meteorite."
"And maybe they should hang the town planners," muttered Runt. He glanced up and down the river, but the path just led straight into the water, and there was no sign of a nice, convenient bridge nearby. Then he squinted, for in the distance he could see a small boat tied to a ramshackle jetty. "Right, that's me sorted," he said, striking off through the undergrowth. "Enjoy the swim!" he called over his shoulder.
"What about the mule?" protested Father M.
"Let Hurm carry the damn thing," said Runt, and the crashing sounds of undergrowth faded into the distance. It was said the little people could move through the undergrowth without disturbing so much as a twig, but clearly the humans who believed such a thing had never met an angry, impatient halfling with hydrophobia.
Father M eyed the mule. The mule eyed him back. Then, with a kind of barking snort of derision, it set off after Runt, the buckled dragon cage still tied to its back. Father M watched it go, then shrugged. It was Runt's problem now, and the cage was near useless anyway.
"Food?" said Hurm, as he watched their lunch disappear with the mule.
"Try some berries," said Father M. And with that he turned and strode into the water, following the marked path. He'd only gone a few paces when he realised the water barely reached his knees, and he smiled to himself as he crossed the fast-moving river. Silly Runt, heading off to hire a boat when the water was no obstacle at all! Even in the deeper parts, there were evenly-spaced boulders with flat, roughened surfaces, and it was no trouble using the stepping-stones to reach the far side.
Together, Father M and Hurm splashed across the river until they reached the opposite bank. Then they heard a faint cry, followed by a splash, and Father M put his head on one side to listen. The cry was followed by an impressive amount of swearing, gradually getting louder, and then a curious sight met his eyes. Round a bend in the river came a small wooden boat, with their mule standing in the dead centre. It was chewing a mouthful of grass, completely unconcerned, while the swearing continued from somewhere around the waterline.
The boat turned slowly as it approached, speeding up considerably as the river narrowed. Father M saw a bedraggled Runt clinging to the gunwale on the far side, still spouting curses and river water in equal measure. He was losing his voice with all the shouting, and as the boat sailed by Father M realised both occupants were now a little hoarse.
"Catch up with you later," called Father M, and he gave the halfling a casual wave. "Enjoy the seaside."
He and Hurm watched the boat vanish around the next bend, then turned and strolled up the path towards the nearby woods. They had few concerns for Runt, since he could ride the mule and catch up with them. Presuming he didn't wash out to sea and drown, of course, but that would be his own fault and there was nothing they could do about it.
After a hundred yards or so, Father M realised it was very quiet amongst the trees. The wildlife was still doing its thing, but there was something missing, and with a resigned expression he realised it was Hurm's steady footsteps. He stopped, and turned to see whether the big fighter had walked into a tree or something, but it wasn't that. Instead, Hurm was crouched next to a bush full of red berries, cramming the fruit into his mouth as though he hadn't eaten for a week.
"Not the red ones," said Father M mildly, but it was too late. Hurm grabbed at his throat, retched, then fell over on his side. Father M strolled over and saw the fighter completely paralysed apart from the eyes, which stared up at Father M accusingly. "Try the blue ones next time," said Father M.
Hurm gargled a reply.
"You'll be fine. It'll wear off in a couple of hours." Father M glanced up at the trees, estimating the position of the sun. It was mid-morning, and they had a whole day's walk to reach their first rest stop. "Look, I'll go ahead. We'll catch up later, okay? Bye!"
With that he turned and walked away, leaving Hurm to the lizards, the biting midges, and the ants.
Chapter 20
Many leagues away, in the Kingdom of Bark, the aging monarch was feeling particularly grumpy. His wooden throne was uncomfortable, his breakfast steak had been so tough his steelwood knife had barely been able to cut it, and now he faced the biggest waste of time since his smartest minds had come up with the wooden fireplace.
Yes, it was time to preside over the Three Disputes.
Centuries ago, a well-meaning king of the Barks had laid down a constitution of sorts, in which he promised to arbitrate ten legal cases every day. Over the years, this had been whittled down to three, and many extra conditions had been added - no divorce cases, no petty thefts, no accusations of treason. Still, it was a tradition, and King Larch of the Barks was not one to dispense with those lightly.
His courtiers had but one instruction: they were to ensure the cases were unique, or novel, or at least interesting in some way. Everything else could be left to the courts, or failing that a bloody duel in the town square.
"This man has been charged with painting his house a particularly vile shade of green, Your Majesty."
"Guilty," said King Larch. "The punishment is ten blows with a wooden axe, or beheading. Whichever comes first."
The elderly man was dragged away, protesting his innocence, but the king was unmoved. Hey, the constitution said he had to preside over Three Disputes, he reasoned. It didn't say he had to spend hours considering them. So, he beckoned to the minister of the courts, who approached at the double. "Yes, sire?"
"When I said these cases must be interesting, I meant … interesting. Novel. Unique. What's so special about a green house?"
"You should have seen the colour, Your Majesty."
The king sighed. "All right, bring in the final case."
"The second case, Sire."
"The first one was so bad it counted as two. Now get on with it."
A balding man, mid-forties, was dragged before the king. Instead of kneeling and begging for mercy, he stood straight and looked him in the eye. Immediately, the king sat up, for this was a good sign. "What did you do?" he demanded.
"Sire, I sought knowledge."
The king groaned. Another wannabe mage who'd been foolish enough
to get caught. "Guil—"
"Your Majesty," interrupted a courtier. "The charge is using … metal."
There was a gasp around the hall. Guards stood ready with their wooden spears, glaring through the slits in their wooden helmets, their wooden armour creaking as they faced the crowd. The king adjusted his position on the throne and eyed the man. "What is your name."
"By your leave, sire. It is Wiltred of Tharn."
"Well, Wiltred of Tharn, what do you have to say for yourself?"
"I believe this kingdom would benefit greatly from the use of my new material." He held up his hand, and the light glinted off his silver ring.
"I'm sure it might, but our rules are clear on the matter. You've been forging metal, and—"
There was a collective gasp. "Anarchist!" shouted someone. "Ore lover!" shouted another. "Lightning is coming!" murmured the rest, as one.
"By your leave, sire, this is not metal. I call it … falsite."
"It looks like metal to me," said the king.
"Indeed, but it is forged from the sap of the steelwood tree."
"Whether it's metal, or you really turned wood into metal, the rules for such blasphemy are clear. The rules state—"
"Indeed, Your Majesty, but the rules were written in the age of the Great Storm."
There was a hush. The Great Storm was legendary, since it had eradicated half the Bark population. Featuring non-stop lightning fair across the land, everyone within ten feet of any metal had been fried on the spot. Worse, the storm had persisted for six months, or so legends had it, and afterwards all metal in the land had been collected up and gingerly dumped in the sea. Ever since, metal had attracted an almost universal loathing, and anyone caught using the devil material was executed or banished. And ever since, amongst the other kingdoms, the head of the Barks had been known as the Wooden Ruler.
"There might be another Great Storm," said the king mildly.
"There might also be a Great Plague, or a Great Summer. Are we to ban crops, or clothes?" Wiltred stepped forward, ignoring the guards brandishing their spears. "Sire, we live in an age of enlightenment. I myself have been secretly working metal for months, producing several ingots which may or may not be stronger than wood. Imagine swords and spears of shiny metal to protect us against our enemies. Imagine a metal cooking pot which does not catch fire when you heat your food. Imagine nails of solid metal, and fasteners much stronger than twine."
The king looked up. It was true, the roof did fall in occasionally, but that's why builders had erected a strong shield above his throne. And it was also true that he was fed up with cold food, wooden utensils, and splinters in general. But traditions and laws were important, and this man had not only broken them, he'd just admitted to it. The people would expect punishment, swift and merciless. On the other hand … he was king. "I'm placing you under house arrest," he said at last. "You will be incarcerated at my pleasure until I can verify this falsite of yours."
The man bowed his head. "Yes, Your Majesty."
"Right, that's it," said the king. "Everyone out." As they left, he crooked his finger at a courtier. "Not you. Wait."
The crowd thinned, then cleared completely, leaving the two of them alone. "What can I do for you, Your Majesty?" said the courtier at last.
"Have they finished building the new kitchens yet?"
"Indeed, sire. We have new ovens built of the finest steelwood, guaranteed to last for at least thirty days. The walls have been treated with stillwater, to resist flame. The—"
"I don't mean to sound radical, but have you considered building an oven from … stone?"
"Indeed, but how would one work such a material? We can only craft wooden pickaxes."
The king realised he spoke the truth. "So what happened to the old buildings?"
"They stand vacant, ever since the fire."
"Can you organise a renovation? New roof, walls, that kind of thing?"
"There isn't much left, sire," said the courtier doubtfully.
"Good, I'm glad you're on it. Once you've finished it, say, later this afternoon, come and find me. Now go tell them I want my lunch."
"Yes, sire."
"I don't suppose there's any hot stew?" asked the king wistfully.
"Only ham sandwiches, Your Majesty."
"Figures." And with that the king sat back on his throne, wincing as he picked up a splinter from the wooden armrest.
— ♦ —
"Sire, there's a messenger squirrel from Queen Therstie."
King Larch looked up from his cold lunch. "Really? What does she want?"
"After a journey of several months, I'd suggest a good drink and a handful of nuts."
"Not the squirrel, you oaf. The Queen!"
"I cannot say, Your Majesty, as the scroll is sealed."
Impatiently, the king snatched the furled parchment. To his distaste, he saw the queen had tied it off with silver wire. A slap in the face for Bark traditions, no doubt about it. He untwisted the fine strand and surreptitiously pocketed it, knowing it would serve as better dental floss than the rough cotton his people used. Then, with a secret thrill, he opened the scroll.
"By the wooden balls of Bark," he muttered. "She's still on about that half-brother of hers, Tyniwon Mollister. Hasn't he turned up yet?"
"Nay, sire. It is said he bedded the master woodturner's daughter, amongst others, and now lies in hiding from their wrath."
"The sap is strong in that one," remarked King Larch. Then he waved the scroll. "If you don't unhide him pretty damn quick, his sister is going to raise an army and come looking for him. And I can tell you now, no amount of wooden armour is going to stop their iron swords."
"Our might will prevail," said the courtier devoutly. "We will prepare for battle and resist their demon-tainted weapons."
"Dream on," muttered the king. "Anyway, this message is months old now. They might already be at the gates. They might have … fire."
The courtier blanched.
"Just gather our spies, throw some wooden nickels around, and find the dolt. Is that clear enough for you?"
"Yes, sire."
The courtier left at a run, and the king crumpled the note. Then, absent-mindedly, he raised it to his nose and inhaled the scent. Mingled with squirrel sweat, mulch of the forest and digested nuts though it might be, the queen's perfume was unmistakable, even after all these months. Then, with a faraway look in his eyes, he remembered a time when he and the queen had messaged each other daily, engaging in witty, risque banter via daily texts sent by raven and dove. It had all come to a crashing halt when dragons ate the last of the feathered messengers, since the alternative — trained squirrels — took months to travel the same route. He only wished there was an alternative to tying messages to small animals, and he decided to fund a line of research as soon as possible.
Hmm, research. That reminded him of Wiltred, the budding metallurgist, and the king glanced at the nearby window cut in the wooden wall of his throne room. The sun was low, which meant the old kitchens should have been rebuilt by now. Once they were fitted out they would become the man's workshop, where this Wiltred would continue his metalworking in peace. The king was no fool, and he knew the people would revolt if they learned of the arrangement, but by the same token they had to realise the kingdom was on a wooden highway to oblivion. Either they stuck with the old ways, embraced wood, and perished in the next big fire, or they modernised. He decided to get a hand-picked bunch together, people he could trust to work some revisions into the holy scrolls. He would also have a quiet word with the more traditional preachers, letting them know their days as firebrands in the wooden city were numbered. It would take a year or two, but he was sure that prejudices could be channelled into new and more productive areas. For instance, nobody liked mosquitoes, so why not ban those instead of metal? Also, Wiltred's use of the term falsite was a stroke of genius, since people would convince themselves of anything, no matter how far-fetched, if it made their lives a little easie
r.
The king snapped his fingers, and moments later a courtier appeared.
"Bring me the prisoner, Wiltred. I wish to speak with him."
"I will have him secured immediately, sire."
"No, don't bother. Just escort him in so I can have a private word."
"You wish to speak with him … alone?"
"Now you're getting the idea."
"But sire, he's … a prisoner."
"Yes, and I'm the king, so go and do what you're told or I'll have you swapping places with this Wiltred before sundown."
"Y-yes sire." The courtier ran off, and the king snorted under his breath. Wiltred was a man of learning, not some assassin bent on harming the king. What was he going to do, attack his monarch with a wooden chair?
It was several minutes before the courtier returned, with Wiltred and six beefy guards in tow. "I will speak to this man alone," said the king.
The guards looked at each other doubtfully.
"I'm sorry, do you want me to say please?" said the king sweetly. "Get out!"
At his roar, the guards and the courtier fled, leaving Wiltred standing alone in the middle of the great hall. He was so calm he barely flinched as a piece of roof came loose and landed nearby.
"Come here," said King Larch. "We need to talk."
Wiltred approached, and bowed his head. "Thank you for sparing me, Your Majesty. For the past week, the guards have been detailing all the horrific methods by which I would be punished for my crime."
"They're just following orders," said the king mildly. "But never mind that. Let's talk about metal."
Wiltred looked surprised, and he glanced around cautiously as if suspecting a trap. A wooden trap, naturally, and therefore not particularly effective, but a trap all the same.
"Relax, man. You can speak openly."
"Very well, Your Majesty."
"Cut out the majesty stuff, too. Just get to the point. What do you know, what do you need to further your research, and what can you achieve in the next six to twelve months?"