by Robert Evert
She stopped unbuttoning his shirt. “You’re going to keep adventuring?”
“It’s my profession.”
“Yes, but…” she said, her tone less sensual than it had been a moment before. “I thought you wanted to make enough money to live comfortably somewhere as far from your father as possible.”
Edris considered this. “No,” he said, perhaps more to himself than to Beatrice, “I’ll never be a farmer. I like questing. It’s frustrating as hell. But then you find your quarry…” He smiled. “I can’t explain it.”
“You really love it, don’t you?” She sounded disappointed.
“I do. I like being outside. I like the thinking. And…”
“The fighting?”
“No. I hate that. I was about to say that I liked the comradery. I like being part of a tradition, part of a group. I like—”
Somebody knocked. Beatrice and Edris exchanged glances. It was close to midnight; having a guest at that hour was unusual.
“Who is it?” Beatrice called out.
“It’s me,” a wry voice said. “Brago. I need to speak with Ed. His father sent me.”
“My father?” Edris opened the door. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing as far as I know.” Brago glanced at Beatrice, a guilty smile spreading across his thin lips. He gave her a slight bow. “Beatrice.”
Beatrice straightened her clothing. “Brago. It’s good to see you.”
“Always a pleasure.”
“What’s wrong with my father?” Edris asked, interrupting the pleasantries.
“As I said, nothing as far as I can tell. He simply sent me to let you know a new quest has been issued.”
“Already? There shouldn’t be any quests until spring!”
“Yet, here I am.”
Edris grabbed his cloak. “Let’s go.”
“Ed?” Beatrice pleaded. “Can’t this wait? Just a couple of hours?”
“I’m sorry, Bea. I have to get a jump on the competition. I’ll return as soon as I can.”
Sixty-Two
Dripping with sweat and breathing hard, Edris burst into Lord Elros’s darkened library. His father and brother were seated at the table, hunched over a mound of books. They looked up, a flickering candle illuminating their startled faces.
“Sorry I’m late,” Edris said. “I came as soon as I got the message.”
“You’re not late at all,” his father said. Whether he was being sarcastic or not, Edris couldn’t tell. “As a matter of fact, with you hiking in the hills, I’m pleased your squire found you at all.”
“Brago? He’s more of a friend than a squire.”
“You don’t need a friend! You need a loyal servant who will do what he is told.”
“Yes, sir.” Edris dusted the snow from his cloak. “He said there’s a new quest.”
“Indeed.” His father flipped him a parchment with King Michael’s seal. “They want the Horn of Borin.”
“The Horn of Borin?” Edris repeated, reading the royal announcement. King Michael was offering six hundred gold for it. “Didn’t Sir Royce already find that?”
“Depends on whom you believe,” Edros said.
A servant entered the library bearing a tray laden with three glasses and a crystal decanter of brandy. He set it on the table in front of Lord Elros, then left.
“They held a quest for the horn fourteen years ago…” Lord Elros said, filling his glass, “but nobody turned it in.”
“It was a failed quest?” Edris asked doubtfully. “I could’ve sworn—”
“Sir Royce claimed he found the horn, but he never presented it to King Gustav.”
Edris pulled up a chair across from his brother. “Who did he present it to?”
“He didn’t present it to anybody,” Lord Elros said crossly. “You should know these things, Ed. This is your chosen profession!”
“Yes, sir,” Edris said, eyeing the brandy. “I’m just a bit confused.”
Edros came to his rescue. “If the rumors are true, Sir Royce found the horn, but he refused to give it to anybody.”
“Refused? Why?”
“If found, the horn would have been returned to Borin’s family,” Lord Elros said, as though this were explanation enough.
If Edris remembered correctly, Sir Royce was the great grandnephew of Sir Rosser, who feuded with Sir Borin. The two families had hated each other for centuries.
“He didn’t want the horn being returned to the enemy,” he said.
“Exactly.” Lord Elros searched through a large tome, snapping its pages as he turned them. “I’m glad you’re getting your wits about you.”
Chuckling, Edris attempted to lighten the mood. “Strange that Royce would refuse to win a quest because of a feud he hadn’t even been involved in.”
“Never underestimate hatred,” his father said. “It drives men more than anything else. Even love. Remember that.”
“Yes, sir.” Edris stifled a yawn. He’d been up since before dawn and it was already well past midnight, but he couldn’t afford to have his father see him tired. “Should we assume Royce was telling the truth? Or should we pursue the horn as though it were lost?”
“Either way,” Lord Elros said, “it’s lost. Think!” He drained his glass and refilled it to the brim.
“If you want my opinion,” Edros said, “you should first try to eliminate the possibility that Royce was telling the truth. Then—if you aren’t able to do so—search for the horn where it was last seen.”
“The Battle of Forest Glen,” Edris said, trying to impress his father.
“Right.” His brother went on, “If I had to wager, I’d bet Royce didn’t find the horn and was attempting to get people to stop looking for it. It shouldn’t be too difficult to determine whether he was lying.”
“Sir Royce died a while ago, didn’t he?” Edris asked. “About ten years?”
“Eight years,” his father replied. “Do you know how he died?”
“In a duel with Sir Halfred.”
His father’s expression softened. “Correct.”
“Clearly he didn’t have the horn on him when he died,” Edris said, “or else Halfred would’ve given it to his king.”
The revulsion in Lord Elros’s face returned.
“This is the horn.” He turned a large book, so it faced Edris. There was an illustration of a man blowing a long, straight horn extending all the way to the ground.
“How big was it?” Edris asked, squinting at the picture.
“About eleven feet,” Edros replied. “It’s one of the horns of the mountain people. It was nearly five hundred years old and made of silver.”
“A giant horn shouldn’t be too difficult to find,” Edris said.
“It won’t be if you stop screwing the tavern wench and focus on the task at hand,” Lord Elros said.
So, his father knew. He wasn’t happy, but at least he wasn’t irate. Perhaps in time, he’d allow him to court Beatrice properly.
“If Royce found the horn,” Edris said, ignoring his father’s outburst, “I bet scores of people must’ve seen it. You can’t have something that big without drawing attention to yourself.”
Edros opened a book. “It says here hundreds of people claimed to have seen Royce with the horn. According to this, he dragged it behind his horse as he rode through Williamshire.”
“Williamshire?” Edris said. “That’s where Royce was from, wasn’t it? That complicates matters.”
“How so?” their father asked, drink in hand.
“He was their local hero. They’d want to support him, even making up lies and exaggerating his fame.” He rubbed his tired face, hiding another yawn. “Maybe it won’t be as easy as that after all.”
“Giving up already?” Lord Elros sneered.
“No. I’m evaluating the situation.” Edris got to his feet and paced the shadows. “Okay. Let’s assume I’m Royce and I found the horn. I hate Borin’s family enough to prevent them from regaining the
ir precious heirloom, even though that’d mean I wouldn’t officially win the quest. What would I do? Destroy it? If that’s the case, this quest is pointless.”
“Go on,” his father said. “What else might Royce have done with the horn?”
“Well, if I really wanted to stick it to Borin’s family, I would hide the damned thing, perhaps despoiling it in such a way that they’d never forget my name.”
“You’d also ensure that there were enough stories and eyewitnesses to make Borin’s family believe you have it,” Edros said. “Otherwise, what’s the point?”
Edris mulled that over. “I don’t think so. If I were Royce, I wouldn’t want Borin’s family to be absolutely convinced I had their horn. I’d want them to suspect that I might have it. If they knew for sure, they’d come after me to get it.”
Lord Elros slapped the table, shaking the half-empty decanter. “Yes! Exactly. That’s how you need to think. Get into the minds of the people involved. Either way, Royce would sow doubt and create confusion. But if he had the horn, he’d despoil it like you said. He’d then stow it someplace where it would be found someday.”
“Found?” Edros repeated. “Why? Assuredly, he’d bury it someplace deep where nobody could get to it. Maybe throw it into the ocean.”
“No,” Edris said. “Where’s the fun in that? If he hid it permanently, people would eventually forget about it or assume that Royce never found it. He’d want it unearthed after he died so he could get the credit for the win.”
“He’d also want to infuriate Borin’s family,” Lord Elros said. “I’ll bet you anything that when you find it, it’ll be packed with shit, or worse.”
“When I find it…” Edris repeated, appreciating his father’s confidence in him. “Brago and I will set off at once.”
“Where to?” Edros asked.
“Williamshire seems the best option. I want to talk with the people who say they saw the horn. Hopefully their memories are still relatively intact. Fourteen years is a long time to forget.”
“You’ll need to watch for Markus,” Lord Elros said, standing. The hand clutching his brandy shook slightly. “He won’t want you to win two in a row.”
“I can handle Markus.”
“Perhaps,” Lord Elros said. “But make sure that squire of yours watches your back.”
“I will. I only hope this isn’t a wild goose chase. Williamshire is a good three week’s ride—”
The word squire struck a chord in Edris’s mind.
“What is it?” his brother asked.
“Who was Royce’s squire when he allegedly found the horn?”
Edros hunted through several books, scanning their pages. “Ah. Here it is. It was a lad named Melville.”
“Melville?”
“Find this Melville,” Lord Elros instructed. “But be wary. Every other adventurer will have the same idea.”
Sixty-Three
Edris and Brago rode between the wooded hills five days south of Bend, the evening gloom deepening around them. Suddenly, the twang of a bowstring sliced through the stillness. Edris’s horse shuddered, then reared.
“Brago!” Edris shouted as he fought to steady his screeching mare. “Ambush! Turn about! Turn about!”
Another arrow slammed into the horse’s ribs. It crumpled to the snow-flecked ground as Edris vaulted from the saddle.
Behind him, Brago hesitated. “Ed!”
“Go!” Edris shouted, diving behind a tree. He drew a sword.
Pulling hard on the reins, Brago wheeled his grey rouncey.
Edris glanced around the tree’s trunk.
Up the steep incline, fifty feet above the road, a cloaked and masked man loosed another arrow—this time at Brago. He missed as Brago shot off down the hill.
“Bastard!” Edris charged the figure. Slipping on the snow, he fell as an arrow glanced off the tree next to him.
Clawing his way up to a rock outcropping, Edris jerked a dagger from its sheath. Another arrow struck directly above his head, shards of stone and snow flying. Leaping to his feet before his assailant could nock another arrow, he made to heave the dagger—but the figure had already disappeared into the darkness. From the other side of the hill, the sound of galloping hooves faded off into the night. But it was the gurgling cry of his dying horse that seized Edris’s attention.
“Bollocks!”
Snatching his sword, Edris allowed himself to slide down to the road. His horse, a big brown bay he’d had for years, writhed in red snow, blood spraying from its nostrils.
“It’s all right, boy. It’s all right.”
The horse lifted its neck, its eyes rolling in terror. It attempted to stand.
“No. That’s okay. Lie still.” Edris put the tip of his sword to the horse’s chest. “Lie still. Okay, boy? Everything is okay.”
The bay did as it was told, laying its long neck and head on the bloody ground. It released one last snort.
“I’m so sorry.”
Tearing up, Edris shifted his weight and drove the sword into the horse’s heart, blood spurting into the air. “Bastard!” Edris hollered into the darkness. “I’m going to kill you. Hear me? I’m going to take this damned sword and shove it—”
Something moved along the road behind him. Wrenching his sword from the dead horse, he spun.
Brago crept along the road, his finger to his lips. He pointed up the hill and then lifted a hand in silent question.
Edris wiped his eyes. He felt foolish crying but decided he didn’t care. He loved horses. As far as he was concerned, he’d never met a horse he didn’t enjoy being around. People, on the other hand—
He wiped his bloody sword in the snow, then slid it into its scabbard. “The bastard’s gone.”
“Sure?”
“He rode away, the gutless coward.”
Edris unsaddled his fallen horse, pulling the arrow from its side. He studied it, then handed it to Brago.
“If you ever see somebody with arrows like this, you let me know.”
“Of course.” Brago stowed the arrow with his gear. “Think he was aiming for the horse?”
Edris stopped unpacking his saddle. He’d assumed the figure was a bandit, but then again, bandits wouldn’t be acting alone.
“It was probably one of my competitors. Damn them. We can’t make for Williamshire on foot. The quest would be over by the time we’d get halfway there.”
“I can ride to Bend and get another horse.”
“No. That’d take another ten days at least.”
“What then?”
Angry, Edris scanned the hills. Above the leaf-bare trees, winter stars glimmered in the black sky. His weary breath appeared before him as grey vapor.
“There’s a farm not far from here.” He pointed at a neighboring hill. “Just beyond that ridge, maybe four or five hours’ ride west. Ride back along the road. Take the first path you come to heading into the valley. It should lead you right to the farm. Give them some of this and my thanks.” He handed Brago a pouch heavy with coins. “I’ll meet you tomorrow morning where this road fords a river about ten miles ahead.”
“You’re going on by yourself? Ed, that isn’t—”
“I’ve hunted in these woods most of my life. I’ll be fine. Besides,” he said, “I want to see if I can pick up the asshole’s trail. And the gods help him if I do.”
Sixty-Four
Standing in an abandoned campsite near the top of the hill where he’d been ambushed, Edris surveyed the surrounding countryside. It was the perfect surveillance point. Even at night, he could see for miles, especially to the north toward Bend.
Who did this?
Markus was the only one who came to mind.
Markus …
He stared down the slope to where his horse lay dead in the road.
If it were Markus, the masked man’s third shot wouldn’t have been at Brago. It would’ve been at him.
Was the bowman trying to slow him by killing their horses?
&nbs
p; Who’d do such a thing?
Somebody who is desperate to win …
Hell. That could be any adventurer—not just Markus.
Winning breeds enemies, his father often said. And Edris clearly had enemies.
He knelt and examined the campsite. Something bothered him. What was it?
There was only one horse. He could tell by the distinctive pattern one of the horseshoes made in the snow. It had a slightly bent nail.
A lone assailant …
Edris jabbed his sword at the burnt-out remains of a fire. There were far more ashes than he’d expect. And there was a small pile of dry wood stacked neatly nearby.
He sniffed. Where the fiend’s horse must’ve been tethered, there were many piles of manure. Some had already dried.
Only hatred would make somebody wait for days in the cold.
He had to be on his guard.
Sixty-Five
The next morning, Edris sat on a boulder where the southern road from Bend forded the River Mine. He enjoyed listening to its cold-water tumble over the glistening rocks. Behind him, the steady clopping of horses came up the valley. Turning, he found Brago riding out of the woods, leading a broken-down nag.
Edris groaned. “That’s what you bought?”
“This’s all they were willing to sell,” Brago said. “I considered killing the farmer and taking one of his plow horses, but I thought you’d be opposed to such decisive action.”
“I would indeed.” Edris examined the horse, pity swelling in his heart. The beast was missing patches of its mane and had a swayback. It probably only had one more winter in him before dying. “If I mount it, I’ll break the poor thing’s spine.”
“If you prefer, I can ride to the farm and steal one of their good horses.”
“No. Honor means something.”
“So does winning the quest.” Brago climbed from his saddle. “Any clues as to who our friend was last night?”
“He wasn’t a bandit,” Edris said, frowning at the elderly horse. “Whomever he was camped in these hills for days, maybe even a week.”
“Waiting for you? Sounds like the work of your cousin.”
“Markus would’ve tried to kill me, not the horse.”