Will Power (31 page)

A fast route, no doubt, but not one I had traveled in some time. Or that much at all, to be honest. This was a consequence of spending most of my first eighteen years in a dress (on stage, you understand) and the next with a bunch of high-minded adventurers who lived to denigrate my moral character. I needed to get into the right mood, and—if I didn’t want to stifle my would-be lover—a clean shirt.

One problem with my scheduled assignation, of course, was that it meant wandering around the city after dark. The last time I had done that I had almost fallen victim to every assassin in the region. I wasn’t going to put myself in that predicament again. The solution had already occurred to me, though: I would leave early, while it was still light—well in time for my assignation—and come back in the morning. This would mean being so irresistibly charming that my romantic correspondent would keep me closeted with her until daybreak, but surely I could manage that? Given my recent track record, it was a plan almost certainly doomed to failure, but I might be able to use the threat of my certain death if I returned to the city after dark as a way of keeping me enveloped in my beauteous lady’s piteous bosom.

It never really occurred to me that she might not be beauteous. The fancy writing oozed sophistication and style, and all the courtiers I had seen thus far had been real lookers; in fact, I think they pretty much had to be real lookers in order to be courtiers, if you know what I mean. Everyone in the palace was so preoccupied with their appearance that you just couldn’t imagine them daring to pass the time of day with any vile or misshapen old crone, assuming that the city of the fair folk even had the odd misshapen crone. I suppose I should have been outraged by this, but Garnet and Renthrette, who were usually pretty easy to outrage, would slit the throat of anyone who breathed a critical word about the court. If they thought it was all good and moral and wonderfully principled, how bad could it be? However much they played it down, of course, Garnet and Renthrette were attractive people themselves, in a chill and dangerous kind of way, and maybe this unspoken awareness made the exclusion of ugliness from the palace more
acceptable to them. Maybe being part of the in-crowd of the court (and I had no doubt that they were part of that crowd now that Garnet was charging around heroically slaying goblins and Renthrette was drifting about in silk and jewels courtesy of the noble Sorrail) had dulled the edge of their righteous indignation. I don’t know. However superficial all this devotion to beauty and the socially decorous might prove to be, I could see the upside: It would not be a vile and misshapen crone picking me up in her coach.

Then Garnet arrived and spoiled things. The only thing scarier than a hostile Garnet is a happy Garnet, because the things that cheer him up would make any sane person run screaming for cover. He strode into my room positively beaming and, more to the point, armed to the teeth. He was cradling his polished helm with its frightful steel mask and great horns in the crook of one arm, and his other hand was rested on the head of the immense axe pushed into his belt.

“Quick, Will!” he shouted unnecessarily. “We leave in ten minutes.”

“We?” I asked, guardedly. “What do you mean, ‘we’? And where are you going dressed like a grave statue anyway?”

“To battle!” he roared, his mouth wide and his eyes flashing. “And I have procured a horse for you.”

“We’re going to rescue Orgos and Mithos?” I asked.

“What?” he said, and there was that vagueness in his eyes again, but only for a moment. “No,” he said. “Not now. That is already in hand.”

“What does that mean?” I said.

“It’s taken care of,” he said. “We have another mission.”

“Which is?”

He sat down hurriedly and spoke in an earnest, hushed tone. “The enemy who attacked the city have fled into the forest, but several of their foul companies have been spotted in the hills north of the city. Our scouts have reported that a large infantry unit has settled there and is probably awaiting orders to assault Phasdreille again. Their cavalry and the beasts they use are stationed elsewhere. If we wait for them to attack they will have a vast force composed of every type of soldier available to them. Right now, they are at a disadvantage. Several, in fact. They have not fully regrouped since their last assault and are missing anything resembling cavalry. They also aren’t aware that we know their location, and their camp is poorly defended. We can strike fast and with minimal risk. Last time my service was scant. Today my sword will spill whatever goblins have in place of blood.

“You are here as my friend, Will. Now you must prove yourself true and valorous. Show the noblemen that your heart is stout and your weapon keen as your wit. Gird your loins, polish your sword, and leave your crossbow behind, for you will not need it. This is war, not a paltry trading of shots. We will go with sword and shield and helm and worthy steeds that will make the air sing with their strides. We will rain down upon these goblin filth like a storm god, and we will drive them from our land in a tide of their own blood.”

See what I mean? To Garnet, loin-girding (what does that even mean?) and blood tide is picnic-in-the-meadow stuff, fun for all the family and a good time had by all. The more sharp bits of metal are flying around, the better he likes it, and these goblins had given him his absolute favorite thing in the whole world: moral clarity. And, in truth, it was kind of infectious. The idea of charging around with a bunch of honorable and well-equipped troops mowing down goblin scumbags armed with sticks suddenly sounded quite appealing, particularly once I’d reminded myself that if the opposition looked tougher than Garnet seemed to expect, I could always ride back, honor tarnished but hide intact.

And so, in a matter of minutes, there I was, sitting astride my worthy steed, my loins girded (I think), the reins gripped tightly in my shield hand while my leather-gauntleted right hand strayed uneasily to my sword hilt. I felt stupid, but I also felt the excitement and surety of victory of those around me, so I looked up proudly and tried not to feel like a fraud.

There was a company of fifty of us, horsemen all, mustered in the vast, pale courtyard before the palace. Sorrail rode at the head, clad in silver mail and brandishing a lance. Around him clustered Gaspar and several of the other prominent courtiers, all decked out for battle, their silken dalliance now barely conceivable as they spurred their horses and eyed their blades critically. Ladies and servants watched approvingly from the steps where Sorrail had greeted us on our arrival into the city. A woman in ultramarine taffeta strode forward and passed a veil or handkerchief to one of the riders. He kissed it ostentatiously and bound it to his wrist. Garnet, still beaming, cantered toward me as the horsemen fell into ranks of four and began to move off. My horse lurched as we began moving, but I stayed on.

Garnet, who lived for this kind of thing, raised his axe in the air and bellowed. I winced with embarrassment, but such displays were
apparently considered acceptable to this crowd. Soon the courtyard rang with courtiers shrieking their valor and masculinity. I tried to smile away my fear and attempted a halfhearted cheer, but if anyone else was convinced, I certainly wasn’t.

We passed through the city, whose streets were lined with admiring and encouraging faces, out of the inner gates, over the bridge, and through the main gatehouse. Our column veered north, moving swiftly through mown wheat fields and meadows of long, brownish grass, and Garnet talked about how he was going to win glory by killing thousands of goblins singlehandedly. I was amazed he didn’t send the other forty-nine of us home so he could do the job by himself. Yet the company was part of it. He loved to be surrounded by like-minded men, all ready to show their skill and strength for a good cause. At one point he turned to me and said, “With these things you can smell the evil. You can see it in their eyes, in the shape of their limbs, in the malice scribed at birth into their faces. They are creatures of darkness, creatures of hatred and resentment. With each one you kill you can feel the world weeping with gratitude.”

The words were strange, of course, especially from the usually taciturn Garnet, but I knew what he meant. I had seen them boiling around the city walls and I had tasted the righteous indignation he felt. I wondered if this was what people felt when they fought what they call a “holy war.” By the time the camp was in sight, I had drawn my sword and set my teeth, almost as eager as my companions to encounter the enemy.

The fight, when it came, was short and glorious. We plowed through their camp before they really knew we were there. Those we did not kill instantly scattered in a rout before us, fleeing into the hills like geese with clipped wings. There were almost a hundred of them to our fifty, but they were thin, disheveled creatures with poor weapons and poorer spirits, and the sight of us bearing down upon them filled them with a shrieking terror so that they fled confusedly. We broke into two lines and funneled the stragglers into the center where they could not flee. For a few minutes, they fought desperately. Most of them could barely reach us, towering as we were on our saddles, so some took to hacking and stabbing at the horses until several fell.

I killed two goblins. One, a spindly fellow in gray rags brandishing a stick with a rock tied to the end, rushed into my sword point in a desperate charge. The other, a heavier creature with olive skin and
deep-set, malignant eyes, stood his ground when he realized he could not flee. I charged my horse at him and plowed him underfoot before he could time his spear thrust. One of our men fell to a javelin thrust, but that was our sole casualty.

When we left the field, it was littered with the corpses of fifty-five goblins. The rest of their unit had completely dispersed. I felt utterly invigorated. Once the battle had begun, my fear left me and I never felt threatened or in serious danger. We were—as Garnet had said—like storm gods, unassailable, righteous, and potent beyond imagining. It was a good feeling.

We returned to the city as heroes. Women cheered and blew kisses and men applauded, promising to be with us next time. Garnet slapped me on the back and told me I had done well. His arm had been gashed by a goblin cleaver, but it was, he said, a minor injury. And the goblins had lived, but briefly, to regret doing him harm. Then he laughed and cheered with the rest. We were taken into the palace for a banquet, apparently the customary end to such raids. All damaged weapons, including my sword, which had been notched near the tip when I killed that first goblin, were collected and sent to the smith for reforging.

Here I made my excuses. Garnet was surprised that I did not want to indulge in this part of the proceedings, but he was also clearly impressed by the fact that I would fight and then not wait around to be wined, dined, and praised. His admiration, however problematic, came in my direction rarely, so I said nothing of my proposed rendezvous with the mysterious court lady.

Instead I bathed, dressed, and picked over the colorful, dainty, and tasteless morsels set aside for my private supper and went out, leaving the world of the palace behind. It was still light outside and the sky was pale and blue. The wind was fresh, and the city’s towers, columns, and graceful, curving walls looked—it has to be said—astonishingly lovely, like something out of an old tale.

Well, so much for that. I had more immediate adventures on my mind. I crossed the sentried bridge where the goblins had led their feint and found workmen studying the small spots of damage where catapulted stones had chipped and cracked the masonry. Unlike the burly and rude types who labored on the streets in Cresdon when someone finally decided it was worth doing repairs, these men were as tall, slender, and clean as the guards, shopkeepers or, for that matter, the
courtiers. They were strong, no doubt, in that understated but powerful way that the men of their race seemed to have, but they looked more like bakers than builders. They wore long tunics of a pale, sandy color and stood around looking grave and doing, to my mind, very little. At the far end I came upon some spots that had already been repaired and noted the pretty shoddy job the workers had apparently done. The stone blocks that had been shattered by the impact of the monster had just been packed back into the crater in the wall, and one of the laborers was in the process of painstakingly plastering over the damage. The finished job looked just about perfect, but the wall was structurally no stronger than before the “repair.” Were they so short of materials that they could not do a better job? Were they expecting another assault imminently and merely wanted to cheat the goblins into thinking that the walls were as solid as they had been?

I approached the wall and looked closer, still riding a wave of confidence after my excursion with the cavalry. Almost immediately one of the masons came over to see what I was doing.

“Just looking at the repairs,” I said, lamely. “Rushed job, was it?”

He gave me an odd look and shook his head.

“It just looks,” I said, “a little, well, flimsy. No. I don’t mean
flimsy
, exactly. I mean, well, I’m not sure. Not as strong as the rest.”

“We have used a slightly different technique,” the mason said, unoffended, “but the wall is as strong as when my great-grandfather first hewed and shaped the stone which was laid as the foundation of this structure. You see those columns by the gate? He carved those himself with nothing but a chisel and mallet. He worked until his hands bled, refusing to rest until the job was done to the best of his ability. The intricacy of their carving is unmatched and, a hundred years later, they are still as straight and flawless as the day they were finished. Since then the goblin armies have broken upon this fortress like waves against cliffs and it stands still. He taught the trade to my grandfather who taught it to my father and my father taught it to me. This hammer,” he said, hefting the steel tool thoughtfully, “has been passed down through our family since the days of my great–grandfather, who used it to shape these stones and cut those pillars. We set a diamond into its handle to remember him by, see? You need not worry about the strength of the walls.”