The Hero's Lot (27 page)

“Here.” Rula placed a weapon in each hand. “Now stand.”

Errol stood; the sweat-stained leather of the hilts molded into his palms. He corrected once, lowering the forward tip an inch or so.
There.
The count regarded him, brows raised. “It seems your mind's demand for balance has been satisfied at last. Stay there.”

Rula moved to the first rack, pulled one of the long, slender swords loose, and gave lazy waves through the air, testing it as he returned.

Without warning he lunged, the wooden blade whistling as it came at Errol's head with the swiftness of lightning. Errol parried with his lead arm, pivoted, and countered with what had been the rear weapon. His stroke missed the mark, leaving him open. Pain flared in his side like coals on his skin.

Rula stepped back, nodding in approval. “That was very good, boy.”

Errol knelt on one knee, coughing. The count didn't train by half measures. Even Liam would have had a hard time matching the force of the stroke. “If it was so good, why am I the one with the bruised ribs?”

The count pursed his lips, the first sign of disapproval Errol had seen from him. “In any endeavor, boy, no matter how lofty or common, those who do it best are those who study it most. If you want to be a great master, you must first train yourself to be a great student.”

The pain made it difficult to breathe. “What is the secret to being a great student?”

Rula's smile reminded Errol of Rale. “Excellent. The best
students are those who reflect on what has happened. They take every bout, every fight, and every move and break them down. They go over it and over it in their mind until they've gleaned all they can from it. Then they use what they have learned to improve.”

Errol nodded, closed his eyes, and raised his weapons, replaying the attack in his mind. Rula had come at his head. He'd parried almost as he would have with a staff. Then he'd spun—the reaction automatic—and struck, or tried to.

His eyes popped open. “I missed. I tried to use a staff counter to strike below your knees, but my sword couldn't reach you, and I left myself open.” Errol stared at the weapons in his hands. “I can't use these. The first time I do that in a real fight, I'm dead.”

Count Rula waved his objection away. “Nonsense, you reacted automatically. We just have to train you out of the habit when you're holding swords.”

The idea intrigued Errol. The swords' lighter weight and independence of motion would prove deadly in close quarters, situations where a staff proved cumbersome. Yes, he would be a good student. Errol sought Count Rula's face. “How good can I be, Count?”

Rula grew serious, almost somber. “Your speed and balance make you one of the deadliest men in the kingdom already, boy. If your blow had come for my side instead of my ankles, I'd be the one rubbing my ribs, not you.”

The count hadn't given him the answer he needed. Errol dispensed with pretense and came to the issue. “You know I have no reason to trust your nephew.”

Rula nodded. “You'd be a fool if you did.”

“Will I be able to beat him?”

The count shook his head. “Not yet, boy, but given time, the issue would be in doubt. Past that, I can't tell you what would happen.”

It wasn't the answer he'd wanted, but it was good enough.

 26 
Ruin Way

F
OR THREE DAYS
Martin followed the ancient road. He found sufficient water in ponds and streams along the way, but he rarely found anything he dared consume. His progress slowed as the hunger grew, and as he crested another rise, he considered that his wandering was pointless and he would never rejoin his friends.

But as he descended into a sun-filled dale, an impression came to him from his environs, a sensation of order he couldn't quite define. He moved on, his ears straining for the sound of man or animal. He stumbled over the lip of a paving stone. When he righted himself, he saw it, and the hair on his arms stood out from sudden gooseflesh: The trees no longer lined the road in random design. The skeletons of huge oaks, their trunks black with age, ran before him, separated by the same distance from tree to tree.

He hurried forward, hardly remembering his hunger or fatigue in the thrill of discovery. The ancient remnants of the road rose before him, and when he topped a small rise, he gasped, the labor of his heart rushing through his ears.

Between two mountains, overgrown with brush, lay the ruins of a city, a city of which he'd never heard, a habitation that had surely passed from memory before the provinces had been conceived. The road he walked ran straight ahead into a broad, circular plaza from which other roads ran like spokes from a wagon wheel. He squinted, trying to accustom his eyes to man-made structures after so long in the plains and forest. He mounted the steps to what appeared to be a fountain, cracked and ruined in the center of the plaza.

Martin laughed under his breath. Some things seemed to be common to man no matter what the age. The steps must have been built for visual impact rather than function. He lifted each leg high to mount the oversized distance between them.

The sound of trickling water caught his ear, and he searched for it. Between cracked stones a clear stream flowed. Martin cupped his hands beneath the cool flow and took a cautious sip.

“Praise Deas.”

A skittering sound behind him jolted his heart. He spun, brandishing his makeshift staff.

A small man dressed in tattered clothes with wisps of dark hair sticking out at odd angles ascended the steps with furtive jerks. He stared at Martin, then shook his head, mumbling to himself.

“I'm sorry, brother,” Martin said. “You startled me.” He gestured at the ruins. “This place . . .” He left it unfinished, kept his staff raised.

The man lifted his head to glance at him. “This one talks. Humph. Haven't had one talk in a while, eh?” He turned away, putting the mouth of a stained waterskin into the trickle.

Martin nudged him with his staff.

The man whirled, mouth and eyes wide with shock. He curled into a ball at the base of the fountain, water trickling unheeded over his head. He stared at Martin from underneath his arms. When Martin made no move, the little man unwound and crept toward him, his shoulders hunched as if expecting blows.

Half a pace away he extended his arm and poked Martin in his gut.

Martin grunted.

“Are you real this time?” His voice crackled with disuse.

“This time?”

The man's breath whistled from his throat. “Never had one ask me a question before,” he said to his hands. He poked Martin again.

Martin rubbed his belly. “Stop that. I'm as real as you are.”

The man's head jerked back and forth, seeking shadows.

A sense of familiarity nagged at Martin. The little man's features and his quick, birdlike gestures reminded him of someone.

“Who are you?”

The man straightened a little more. Then he laughed. “Real.” Despite being a little taller than Luis, the impression of diminutive stature remained. “I . . .” He stopped, his brows furrowing in concentration. “N . . . Ni . . . Niel. Yes, my name is Niel Rohbe.”

Martin stared at the little man in shock. “Teacher Rohbe?”

The man gaped. “Was that me?” He chewed a knuckle, his gaze vacant. “Yes. Yes, that sounds familiar.” He squinted at Martin's face. “You have a horse? By the three, tell me you have a horse.”

When Martin shook his head, Rohbe crumpled to the ground. Hysteria-tinged laughter bubbled from his lips.

“The teachers at the university said you'd disappeared, that you were dead.”

Rohbe cocked his head to one said. “They're right, of course. No horse, no hope, and the spawn creeping closer. They're right, I'm right, but they'll never know it.” He laughed a clear warbling sound.

Martin took him by the shoulder. The physical contact seemed to calm the man. “Do you remember me, Teacher Rohbe? Martin Arwitten.”

The little man's eyes cleared a fraction. “Still getting into trouble, young Martin? Well, you're in the fountainhead of it now.”

“How long have you been here?”

Rohbe shook his head. “I seem to have lost track of time. Yes. Time. I didn't expect to find ruins here. The rest of them must be long buried or covered by the seas. I've searched everywhere else.”

Rohbe's chain of thought was too fractured for Martin to follow. He'd seen men like him before—hermits who'd gone into seclusion for years, who'd forgotten how to speak to others. It took a long time.

“There aren't supposed to be any ruins here, Teacher Rohbe,” Martin said. He turned to take in the low hills that he could now see were concealed buildings. “You taught me that.”

Rohbe gave a few quick nods, short jerks of admission. “Yes, and I was right. These ruins aren't ours, young Martin.”

Waves of gooseflesh ran up and down his arms and legs like warnings. “Whose are they?”

Rohbe laughed. “I found them at last, young Martin. I found ruins of the”—his voice dipped—“malus. Do those fools in the Judica and the college still say the malus and the barrier are myths?”

Martin nodded, mute with shock.

Rohbe scurried down the jumble of broken steps. “Come, young Martin. I will show you something that would set the Judica and the college on end.”

“How can you be sure?” Martin asked. He had never sided with the mythologists who refused to believe the malus once walked the earth, but the existence of such evidence seemed impossible.

Rohbe stopped. “Think, young Martin. Have you so soon forgotten that admonition I commanded you?” He pointed behind them. “Look at the steps.”

Martin nodded. “They would have been elegant and grand once.”

Rohbe snorted through his nose. “They were nothing of the sort. They were functional!”

He couldn't help but stare. “But that would mean . . .”

His former teacher nodded, his eyes alight. “Yes, yes. That's right. They were quite large. Eight to nine feet, I should say. Some may have topped ten. We're so small.”

“Impossible.”

A snap of fingers brought him up short, as if he were still a student under Rohbe's instruction. “Foolish word. I taught you
to dispense with it. Come. Interpret the evidence.” He pointed toward a ruin, hardly more than a pile of stone covered with vines a hundred paces away. “Are you hungry?” he asked.

Martin nodded.

“Come, my doubting student, I keep what food I can catch or grow in that building.” He quickened his pace, and Martin hurried to follow.

As Martin approached the huge entrance, the feeling of strangeness swept over him again.

“It took me a year to clear away enough of the vines to find the entrance,” Rohbe said. He stepped through an entrance five paces high.

Martin followed, his eyes trying to adjust to the gloom.

Rohbe paused to light a torch with flint. Then he moved around the room to light other torches that had been jammed into cracks in the mammoth walls. As the darkness fled, the indistinct shapes clarified. The hair on Martin's neck stood on end.

Rohbe cackled. “As you can see, there are plenty of seats, though I doubt any of them will serve our purpose.”

Martin gaped, knew he must look foolish, but he couldn't find the words to express his amazement. Everything he thought he knew about the ancient history of his world had just been obliterated. “How old is this place?”

Rohbe nodded. “When does our history begin?”

Martin shrugged. “Two thousand years ago with the scattering.”

The historian scratched his head. “Not possible to know. No. No. Twice as old, perhaps. Hard to date them. There are no reference points.”

Martin couldn't help but look at the size of the chairs again. The malus had been . . . “Giants.”

His teacher nodded. “Come, there's more. Bring a torch. Come.”

Martin followed. The trip through the chasm could wait. His birdlike teacher had made the most important historical discovery
ever. Rohbe led him to a small room off what looked to be a great hall. Whatever door had been there had long since rotted away.

His teacher crossed to the far wall. “Look. This room might have been a storeroom of some kind, but I can't be sure. It hardly matters. No, it doesn't. What's important is that the malus were possessed of artistic tastes, however twisted. Evidence.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look, young Martin, at the walls. Look. They're covered in carvings.”

Martin held up his torch to get a better view. The builders had overlaid the walls with a pale yellow stone he recognized from Erinon and his time in Callowford—opaque corundum; durastone. He raised his torch. The room was laid out in a hexagon, and every wall had been sheathed with the rock. Even without the carvings, the room would be worth a fortune. It took hundreds of man-hours to quarry enough of the stone for the conclave's most important casts.

The carvings. Martin held his torch back to look at them. He found himself confronted by faces of terrible beauty that, except for the dust, could have been carved yesterday. The corundum held the detail and gave the depictions a lifelike quality that disturbed him. In those eyes he saw nothing of mercy or compassion.

Male and female in strange, often revealing dress covered the walls, their beauty so perfect it seemed inhuman. Then he noticed the hands. Each hand had six fingers and each foot six toes.

“It took me months to clean out the chamber,” Rohbe said with almost-normal speech. “Yes, months.”

Martin ran his fingers on the bas-relief carvings, marveling at the skill that made the most adept reader's work seem crude by comparison. Scenes of war dominated. The artist depicted the brutality of war in such intimate, even sensuous, detail that Martin was taken aback. The malus had gloried in killing, taken pride and pleasure in it. Gaping wounds were given even more attention than the frightening faces of the beings that inflicted them.

He stopped. The victims in the scenes were small, much smaller than their killers. They wore crude garments of homespun.

Humans.

Martin tore his gaze from the scene, forcing himself to move on. What he searched for he wouldn't have been able to put into words. Perhaps it was some sign of a redeeming emotion in the countenance of that lost race. It never appeared. “What happened to them?”

His teacher gave a small squawk. “You know this, young Martin. Yes. What does your tradition tell you?”

Martin pulled his gaze from the carvings. “I know what our tradition says, but we lost Magis's book hundreds of years ago. Even the existence of the book is little more than a myth now. You taught me to question everything. Legend says Eleison killed the malus, but if that's so, where are their bones?”

Rohbe nodded. “Yes, yes. That would seem to be the question. But you must question everything. You must. Especially your assumptions.”

Martin turned to face him. “What do you mean?”

The historian shook his head. “I've dug through these ruins for years. I have. I've never found a burial ground, a mausoleum, or a crypt. There's no evidence any of them died. Ever.” His eyes were intent, his face lit with unuttered secrets.

Martin exhaled. “Of course they died. They probably burned their dead.”