Willow (15 page)

The fourth trooper was waiting for him. He had just jumped into the wagon. Now, while his cohort fought Madmartigan, he braced himself, crouched, and jabbed at Willow with his lance. Willow dodged and dodged again under a second thrust. He grabbed a mallet off the seat and swung hard—a well-aimed blow to his opponent’s groin. The man gasped and straightened up, just as they hurtled beneath a low branch. There was a sound like a belly flop and he vanished. A moment later, Madmartigan knocked his man out and under the wheels.

“Four down, Peck! Only the chariot, now!”

But the chariot was the most fearsome antagonist of all. Low, rugged, fast, curved knives flashing on its hubs, it was a formidable war machine. And the driver knew how to use it. Lashing his horses relentlessly, he narrowed the space between himself and the fleeing wagon. When he came within range, he chose a horrible weapon from the arsenal arrayed around him. This was a circlet of polished steel, whetted razor-keen on the outside edge. Driving with one hand, he spun this ring aloft, twirling it with his fingers on the flat inside, and let it go. His aim was perfect. Hurtling in, this round knife would have sliced Willow in half where he sat on the driver’s seat, had not Madmartigan deflected it at the last instant with a blow of a lance. It angled up and over Willow’s head, snipped off several finger-sized branches, and dropped into the forest.

Then the chariot itself was upon them. The driver had drawn a great sword and was raising it to strike when Willow braced both feet and hauled back as hard as he could on the reins.

“Whoa!
Whoa
!”

The old farm horse reared back, half-crazed. The wagon halted abruptly. The chariot swooped by with the knives in its wheel hubs slashing air. A hundred yards ahead, the driver swerved out onto a broad meadow, turned, and came back.

“Down! Under the seat!” Madmartigan said.

Willow did what he was told, joining Elora and the two terror-stricken brownies on the floor of the wagon. He heard the terrible rumble of the machine approaching. He heard the snorting of the horses and the bloodcurdling battle cry of the Nockmaar driver. He saw Madmartigan brace himself solidly on the floor of the wagon and lift the lance. He saw him balance it, aim it, hurl it. He saw him fling up his arms in victory. None of the sounds changed, except the shriek of the driver. That cry became more awful, became the snarl of an enraged doomed man. The lance had driven clean through the center of his chest. As the chariot swept past, Willow saw the driver with his arms flung high. He saw him hurtle on that way for a hundred yards before the chariot veered to the right, struck a rock, and crashed. The horses tore out of their traces and galloped wildly away.

Madmartigan laughed, clapping Willow on the back. “Well done, Peck! Out now! Hurry up! Here come some more!” He scooped Franjean and Rool up in one hand and Elora in the other and kicked the side of the wagon hard. “Giddup!”

The horse bolted off and the little party scrambled into the undergrowth. A few moments later another squad of Nockmaar troops passed at full gallop, intent on the dust of the fleeing wagon. Sorsha led them. She rode easily, mounted on Rak, and her lips were parted in a small smile. She was enjoying this chase. She had left her helmet behind in the inn, and her long red tresses flowed free in the wind.

“Come on, my little friends,” Madmartigan said when they had passed. “We can’t stay here. As soon as they find out that wagon’s empty they’ll be back. Up in the hills, that’s the safest place for us.”

They climbed, and before long they were so lost in the dense forest of the slopes that no horseman could have found them. “We’ve got to stop,” Willow said at last. “We’ve got to feed Elora. This is no way to treat a baby, Madmartigan. No way at all!”

But Madmartigan kept going till noon. Then they came to a cool glade, where a clean spring tumbled out of the hillside and the sun filtered through high leaves. Here they washed and rested. But the child was hungry, unsatisfied with water. “She needs milk,” Willow said, as her restive whining became sobs.

“You’re a magician.” Franjean looked at him with bright eyes. “You’ve got Cherlindrea’s wand. Get her some.”

Willow slipped his hand into the deep pocket of his coat and touched the wand. It felt hot and cold, dry and wet, trembling with energy. It felt as big as all the green Earth, and Willow felt very, very small. “I don’t know . . .” he said uncertainly. “You know, I’m not
really
a sorcerer.”

“You don’t have to be,” Madmartigan said. “Look.”

A doe stood in the dappled shadows, her newborn fawn at her side. Perhaps she had been there all along. Perhaps she had just arrived, summoned by Elora’s cries. In any case, she came forward placidly and offered her milk to the child. When Elora had fed, the doe and her fawn vanished back into the woods.

Rool gaped.

“Never seen anything like it,” Franjean said.

“Now
that
,” Madmartigan said, laughing softly, “is a special child.”

“I
told
you!” Willow said. “Why do you think I didn’t want to give her to you back there at the crossroads? What a fool I was!”

“What?”
Madmartigan spread his arms. “She’s here, isn’t she? I just saved her life five or six times!”

“Yes, but back at the crossroads you gave her to
brownies
!”

“Here! Wait a minute!” Franjean bristled.

“I didn’t give her to those brownies. They stole her!”

Rool cackled. “Followed you! Waited till you got to the stream and put her down while you got washed!”

“Anyway, we had orders,” Franjean said. “Cherlindrea commanded us. That should be obvious, Madmartigan, even to you! You think eagles just happen along whenever you want one?”

“Cherlindrea’s a meddler.”

Franjean turned red. He pointed. “Her meddling saved your skin! Two months ago. Down at Blackstorm Ford!”

Madmartigan rubbed his chin. “That was an elk, not an eagle.”

“Doesn’t matter! We got you out of a tight scrape. And this is all the gratitude we get. Thankless lout!”

“Lout!” Rool nodded, maneuvering behind Franjean, shaking his small fist. “Just want to save your own skin!”

“Look, if I just wanted to save my own skin, you wouldn’t be here. You’d be meat for Death Dogs.” Deftly, Madmartigan rebraided one of his long locks that had come loose during the chase. He tore off the upper half of the dress and belted on the skirt. “If you really want to help you’ll find me some proper clothes. And a
sword
! Will you do that?”

Franjean folded his arms and shook his head. “You’re reckless.”

“Drive wagons too fast,” Rool said.

Willow nodded. “And you don’t know how to look after babies.”

“I never said I did!”

“Yes, you did! You promised . . .”

“I said I knew lots of
women
who . . .” Madmartigan stood up suddenly. “Look, I don’t need to be pestered by a bunch of gnomes. I’ve got to find some
people
! And a sword!”

“Gnomes!” the brownies flustered. “Did you hear what he called us? Gnomes! We don’t even have beards!”

“So long, skinny.” Madmartigan tickled Elora under the chin. “You’re not a bad kid, despite the company you keep.”

“She’s
not
skinny! Is she?”

“She certainly is. Look at her arms. Like sticks. One thing I know about babies is that you gotta feed them. So long, Peck.” He strode off into the dusk, skirts swinging.

“Good riddance!” Franjean said when he had gone.

Rool nodded vigorously. “Better without him.” A Death Dog howled in the far distance, on the edge of approaching night. “. . . I think!”

“We’ll be all right.” Franjean bustled about, gathering sticks for a fire. “They’ve lost the scent. Don’t worry, Peck, I’ll look after you and the little one. We don’t need that stupid Daikini.”

“But he is a good warrior . . . Do you know him?”

“Of course. We know everyone. Light this fire, Peck!”

“I-I don’t know . . .”

“Try!”

Willow looked at them. He closed his eyes and concentrated, pointing at the little pile of tinder.
“Strockt lachtnoq!”

A flame glimmered in the dry moss.

“I did it!”

Rool patted him on the shoulder.

Franjean nodded with satisfaction, rubbing his hands together. “Wait. I’ll get us food.” He vanished into the darkness and in a little while returned with his arms full of mushrooms, watercress, and succulent tubers. “All is well,” he said as they ate, noticing Willow’s nervousness. “The stag stands guard. The owl keeps watch for us. Nockmaars are far off on a false scent. We’ll not be disturbed this night.”

Willow glanced in the direction Madmartigan had gone. “Still, I wish . . .
Is
he a good swordsman?”

“Madmartigan? Oh yes. The best.” Franjean gobbled down two small puffballs and one morel. “At least, he used to be.”

“What happened?”

“It’s sad. It’s a pathetic story.”

“Tell me anyway, Franjean.”

“All right.” The brownie wiped his small hands on the moss. He burped. He tugged contentedly at one tufted ear. “Here goes.”

Franjean’s Tale

This is a tale of Galladoorn, the last of the free kingdoms of the north.

Madmartigan was born there in the full flower of that castle. In those days, Galladoorn was second only to Tir Asleen in splendor. Its king and queen were renowned in all lands for their kindness and readiness to give refuge to all whose own lands had been torn by strife. From the coasts of the south refugees came to Galladoorn, and from the west as far as the sea, and from the nomadic tribes of the great eastern plains, where the bison moved in their hundreds of thousands, and the panthers prowled in the canyons. Wherever their place of birth, all those who had been persecuted and uprooted dreamed of one day finding succor in fabled Galladoorn, and many had their dreams fulfilled.

All who reached the castle brought their customs and habits, and they were encouraged by the king and queen to keep those ways. So, Galladoorn became a wondrous mix of differences. Bog folk mingled with the plainsmen there; seafarers with farmers; mountaineers with forest dwellers. Children growing up in Galladoorn at that time were surrounded by a swirling blend of costumes, an infinite array of exotic foods and spices, skills acquired in faraway trades and arts, and travelers’ tales of fabulous domains. Galladoorn’s strength grew from that rich diversity.

Son of noblefolk, Madmartigan was given tutors early so that he might be trained for the administration of the kingdom, but he was a restive and truant child. He preferred to escape into the bazaars on the castle commons, hearing unknown languages, breathing rare perfumes. He liked to sail on the green lakes of Galladoorn even before he was big enough to properly handle a boat. Most of all, he loved to run along the hedgerows when the Eastern horsemen rode, and watch them out of sight from the hilltops, rapt by the beauty of each man and horse, so fluidly perfect that neither seemed complete without the other. Madmartigan lingered long near their corrals and beside the ranges where these men practiced archery. Eventually, when he was still a child they began to take him on excursions. So, he came to know early the free life of the camp and the hunt. He came to love the soft voices of those nomads beside their fires, telling strange tales that flowed, and shimmered, and shifted like wind in the tall grasses of the plains, without climax, without beginning or end . . .

By the age of eight he was an archer. By ten, a superb horseman who could ride standing up, or backward, or swinging down to shoot from under his mount’s neck. Like all plainsmen, he wore loose garb; like them, he let his hair grow long, weaving it into tight braids.

His parents disapproved of his way of life and feared for him. But they were Galladoorns: they advised him, they surrounded him with love, and they moved back and let him grow.

When he was eleven, Madmartigan fought his first battle. Warfare was rare then, but the lands were rife with scoundrels—churls and knaves of various ilks who marauded in gangs, raping and pillaging. One night, Madmartigan’s band was attacked by a gang of Pohas after their horses. Surprise was complete. Far in the wild, the Galladoorns had been careless, had posted no guards. Suddenly the Pohas were among them, snarling like boars; hacking with daggers, their blue tattoos swarming like separate beasts in the firelight. Madmartigan saw two of his friends cut down before they were even on their feet, and a third stabbed and knocked back across the fire as he was rising.

The boy had never used a sword. Compared to the elegance of a fine bow, he had thought that weapon crude, and an instrument of war as well, not of the hunt. But now in his extremity, he grabbed the blade of a fallen comrade and flourished it with a wild cry. It was one of the light, curved scimitars of the East, and he handled it with ease. Two Pohas he slew on the spot, laying open the throat of one and the belly of the other. With one bound he was on the fence of the makeshift corral and, with another, on the back of a piebald mare, urging her onward with a soft whistle and a touch of his heels, over the fence, through the melee, after a pair of Pohas who were scampering away. On one side he hacked down between a shoulder and a neck; on the other he swung low and stabbed up through the small of a back, splitting a tattooed chest. He twisted, lifted the sword clear, twirled it above his head. He uttered a long, high wail, and he touched the mare’s neck, wheeling her back for more.

But the battle was over. Three of Madmartigan’s friends lay dead. Nine Pohas had perished, four of them slain by the boy.

After that, he sought out the finest of trainers in the use of that slim sword. This was an old man too frail even to lift the weapon anymore. He had been borne on a litter to Galladoorn by his family when they fled their homeland ahead of Mongol hordes. Though his body was weak, his mind was keen still, and his will was like layered steel. His eyes narrowed when he saw Madmartigan wield the blade, and he nodded. Yes, he would instruct him.

And so the boy became an adept of the ancient and elegant swordwork of the far northeast, an art of which he was the last disciple. The difference between that art and the hefting of a broadsword was the difference between a wasp and a charging bear, between a viper and a raging bull.