Knights: Legends of Ollanhar (12 page)

It was a bright night, with moonlight shining down on the
forest trail, and neither Ethrin nor his friend carried a lantern.

Ethrin stumbled over a stick and nearly went down.
"Stupid stick," he mumbled. He turned to kick at it and missed,
nearly falling over again. Slung across his back was a simple hunter's bow and
a quiver of arrows.

The trapper, whose name was Vaska, gazed at Ethrin as if in
deep thought. "It's not the stick that's drunk." Vaska was a hefty
man, standing well over six feet tall, with steel traps hanging from his belt
that clanged together as he walked. His knuckles were skinned from a fist fight
in the tavern.

Ethrin shrugged. "I'm not drunk. Just tired."

"You're
drunk
," Vaska insisted. He tried
to kick a stone out of his path and almost toppled over. "But I'm drunker.
I'm so drunk, in fact, that I feel like singing." He broke into a horrid
melody about a lost love.

Ethrin clamped a hand over Vaska's mouth. "Quiet, you
fool. You'll wilt the trees with that bellowing."

Vaska knocked his arm away. "Don't like my singing,
cover your ears. You might not appreciate it, but the ladies love it." He
sighed. "Someday I'll sing a woman right into marrying me. You just
watch."

Ethrin laughed and then winced. "My jaw hurts."
He rubbed the afflicted area. "Lucky I didn't lose some teeth. Bobad can
sure do some rough and tumble when he puts his mind to it. Lucky for him I've
had...thirty pints of ale this night. He took advantage."

"He's a coward," said Vaska. "He always
takes advantage. His favorite move is to punch a man who's not expecting
it."

"He does it well," said Ethrin. "Nearly laid
me out cold."

"Nearly?" said Vaska. "You were on your back
the whole time, while I had to deal with Bobad and his idiot, oversized
brother."

"I was sleeping," said Ethrin, sheepishly.

"You were drunk and knocked out," said Vaska.
"I had to dump water on your face to get you to respond."

Lothrin gazed on in disgust. What had become of his son, to
engage in drunkenness and petty fights? Where was the dignity that a
Birlote--even a
half
-Birlote--should possess? How had Lothrin failed him
so miserably?

"Bobad needs a good beating," said Ethrin.

Vaska nodded. "I'm going to get him. Bet on it,
Ethrin. He's got it coming, and it's way overdue." He grunted with the
pleasure of the thought. "I'm going to smash his face into frog spit and
then...spit on it."

"Double the spit," said Ethrin, smiling. "I
like that. Too bad you have no idea what you're talking about. What the devil
is frog spit?"

"Pond scum, you mule," muttered the trapper.
"Where are you from, anyway? Frog spit it is, and you should know
it."

"I know that I'm drunk," Ethrin pondered.
"And I know that you're drunk. And that's about all that I know. And I pay
no mind to frogs or their spit. But then again, I hunt my meat like a man and
don't spend my hours sneaking around mud pits setting snares and listening to
frogs all day and a half."

Vaska waved him away. "And who gets the money?"

"You," Ethrin said sheepishly, his head bowed. He
perked up a moment later. "But who buys the drinks? Tell me that."

"Me!" Vaska snarled. "And I must be stupider
than stupid."

"Generosity is not stupider," said Ethrin.
"It's gooder than...bad."

"Gooder than bad?" Vaska sneered.

Ethrin shoved him away. "Go sing to a wolf."

Vaska shoved him back. "Buy your own drinks from now
on, you leach. What have you ever done for me?"

Ethrin scratched his head. "I saved you from that
bear."

Vaska threw up his hands in annoyance. "You saved me
from that bear. You saved me from that bear. Same old answer. And I was a dumb,
stupid kid, so what does it count now?"

Ethrin didn't answer. He hung his head.

Vaska muttered under his breath, then said, "That was
a great shot, though. An impossible shot, it was. Sometimes I wonder if you're
even human." He patted Ethrin on the shoulder. "Best hunter around.
Anywhere, ever."

Ethrin maintained his silence, playing it up.

"Best friend I could have," said Vaska, nodding.
"And that's the last compliment you'll get this night. So get your chin
up."

Ethrin smiled. "I was sleeping."

Lothrin could barely believe what he was seeing. His son
was some woodland loser--a forest drunk so pathetic he couldn't even buy his
own drinks. This was the descendant of Olzet Ka who could wield the mightiest
Flamestone of them all? This scruffy half-Norack who grew facial hair and
didn't bother to shave on a regular basis? It was a shocking disappointment.
Nevertheless, this
was
Lothrin's son, and the Ranger was concerned for
him.

"I need to rest," said Ethrin, as the path took
them through a clearing. He sat down on a log. "The ale is wearing off,
and I'm getting one rotten headache." He rubbed his temples and groaned.
"My entire head is a lump of pain."

"Already?" said Vaska, sitting next to him.
"I'm still drunk on my feet. How can you handle so much booze, my
friend?"

Ethrin thumped his chest. "I'm stout. Always
was."

"You're not human," Vaska mumbled. "You can
hold more ale than any man I've ever seen. And you've got those weird, pointy
ears. Reminds of me the legend of the Tree Dwellers. I think you have some of
that blood in you."

"Our masters would kill me," Ethrin whispered,
"if they thought that." He glanced at his feet. "Best you never
say such a thing."

"You've got tree-dweller blood in you," said
Vaska, nodding. "I always knew it. The way you can climb when barefoot,
those long dark toenails and...those pointy ears. And the way you move. No
human is that fast."

"Shut your mouth," said Ethrin. "Someday
you're going to get me killed--and over a bunch of nonsense. I'm a Norack and
that's that. No Tree Dweller has been seen in this land for decades. They're
all gone, and that's the end of it." He balled up his fist. "Keep
talking, and see what you get."

Vaska nodded. "I'll keep my mouth shut. I always have.
You're the one who draws attention to himself. Winning the archery contest so
easily last spring out back of Jud's Tavern, with two soldiers looking
on?"

"That was stupid," Ethrin agreed. "They
tried to recruit me afterward. They weren't too happy when I turned them
down."

"I worry about you," Vaska mumbled. As he tried
to light up a pipe, he nearly fell off the log.

Ethrin gazed skyward. "The moon looks strange this
night."

"It's very bright," said Vaska. "A good moon
for a night walk."

"It draws my gaze to it," said Ethrin, "and
keeps it."

"Whatever," Vaska mumbled, puffing at his pipe.

Ethrin and Vaska smoked some leaf while Lothrin looked on
impatiently and wondered why he was being shown these things.

Sometime later, Ethrin rose and stretched. He wiped sweat
from his brow. "Hot tonight." He removed his cloak, revealing a pair
of brown trousers underneath held up by a black leather belt. A long, sheathed
dagger hung from the belt. Lothrin was impressed with Ethrin's physique. Ethrin
had the build of an elite warrior, lean yet muscular and extremely well
defined. For someone who obviously indulged in booze on a regular bases, Ethrin
looked as hard as a rock. Lothrin had not been expecting that at all.
Underneath all the lowlife antics was a man with a physique most warriors could
only have dreamed of possessing--one that showed no trace of fat and left every
muscle visible.

"I'm not so drunk anymore," said Ethrin.
"I'm ready to head back to Jud's and have some more ale. And I'm certain a
beautiful woman is going to come along tonight. Indeed, it will be my lucky
night."

"Count me out," said Vaska, rising. "I'm
going home. Nothing but married women in these parts, Ethrin. Give it up.
You're going to be lonely and single forever, and die in bitterness like the
rest of us poor sods."

Ethrin stood pondering for a moment, then shrugged. "I
guess I need some sleep too. I've got important things to do tomorrow."

Vaska sneered. "Like what? Sleep until noon and then
eat?"

Ethrin shrugged. "No, other stuff. I need to stock up
on some supplies. I'm running low. So...could I borrow a bit of silver?"

"I knew that was coming," said Vaska. He counted
out some coins and handed them over. "Bring me some fresh venison."

"I'll have it tomorrow," said Ethrin, stuffing
the coins in his pocket. "No problem."

"Stay out of the tavern," said Vaska, "until
you bring me the meat."

"Of course," said Ethrin. "Don't worry. I
have no intention of going near that place until evening. I'm a busy man."

Vaska sighed and shook his head. "We'll see."

As the two men continued across the clearing, Lothrin
became aware of hidden danger in the woods. He wasn't sure how he knew it was
there, but he could feel it so strongly he wanted to cry out a warning to
Ethrin. Lothrin suddenly felt like he was about to witnesses his son's death,
and panic gripped him. Yet Lothrin remained a detached observer and could not
interfere.

Ethrin suddenly paused, gripping Vaska's arm. "Did you
hear that noise? Someone moving in the woods."

"Probably a deer or bear," said Vaska. "Who
cares?"

"No, it was human," said Ethrin. "Someone is
watching us!"

"Are you sure?" asked Vaska, his eyes wide. He
drew a dagger, knowing better than to ignore Ethrin's instincts.

Suddenly a bowstring twanged, and an arrow lodged in
Vaska's chest. The large trapper gazed down at it in shock, and then stumbled
forward. He turned toward Ethrin, fear and horror on his face, and then
collapsed.

"Vaska!" Ethrin cried, even as a bearded, armored
soldier stepped from the woods into the clearing, an arrow pointed at Ethrin.
The gruff warrior grinned at the young hunter, eager to shed blood.

Lothrin looked on in despair, waiting for the arrow to
pierce Ethrin's heart and finish him. The bowstring twanged.

And then to Lothrin's disbelief, Ethrin caught the arrow.

His green eyes flashing in rage, Ethrin snapped the arrow
in two and flung it aside. He drew his long hunting dagger, the muscles
knotting across his frame in anticipation of battle--a picture of savage power
and grace.

Eyes wide with shock, the bearded soldier drew his sword
and charged. Ethrin met him at the middle of the clearing, ducking a vicious
sword stroke. Ethrin's dagger lashed out with such speed that Lothrin's eye
couldn't follow it, and the soldier's throat was torn open.

Ethrin seized the dying warrior and shouted,
"Why?"

But the soldier couldn't answer. His eyes glazed over in
death.

Ethrin shoved the body away.

Then five more soldiers charged into the clearing. They
held gleaming spears. They circled Ethrin, wary of his skill. They had come to
assassinate Lothrin's son, and there was nothing Lothrin could do to help him.

The soldiers closed in, thrusting their spears.

Then a pale glow flooded Lothrin's vision. He found himself
gazing upon the White Flamestone--the object he feared and despised. But he
knew instantly that Ethrin was its rightful owner and that it could save his
life.

***

Lothrin snapped awake. He was lying in his tent, covered
with a blanket. A Birlote torch revealed his surroundings in a crimson glow. He
sat up, sweat dripping from his brow, and tossed the blanket aside. He wore
only his tunic and trousers. His cloak--which bore visible bloodstains--was
folded up nearby next to his boots. Relief flooded through him that his vision
of Ethrin had simply been a nightmare. His son wasn't in any danger of being
assassinated. At least not yet.

 
He rose, pain
flaring in his shoulder from the stab wound. He probed the injury and found it
heavily bandaged. He could barely move his arm, but the shoulder would heal
soon enough with rest and meditation.

Lothrin stepped outside. The camp was quiet, with only the
solitary figure of Lannon seated before a campfire. Lannon wore his hooded Birlote
cloak, and he looked like a shadow next to the flames.

"Lannon?" the Ranger called out, in a gentle
voice. "How is my cousin?"

Lannon turned toward him. "Prince Vannas is fine. Our
enemies were defeated and will likely not return this night. However, the
wizard escaped. I will be keeping watch until morning. You should go back to
sleep."

So the battle was over, and Dremlock had prevailed. Prince
Vannas had survived yet another assassination attempt.

But Lothrin was deeply unsettled, the memory of his dream
about his son Ethrin refusing to leave him. Why was Lothrin so worried about
someone who didn't yet exist? It didn't make sense, and it was frustrating.

"Fool," Lothrin whispered to himself, stepping
back into his tent. "Stop worrying about ghosts." His son wasn't in
any danger because he wasn't alive. He was nothing but a possibility, a hope,
and a dream--a phantom of the mind.

After Lothrin lay down to sleep, he thought his fears would
diminish--but they did not. He remained deeply worried about his son.

Most disturbing of all was the part of the dream where the
White Flamestone seemed destined to reside in his son's hands. How could such a
thing ever come to pass? The Flamestone belonged to Dremlock and Prince Vannas.
Yet Lothrin believed his dream had been sent by the Divine Essence for him
alone to contemplate--a warning that Ethrin would die if the Flamestone didn't
pass to him.

Lothrin groaned. With so many struggles in the present, why
did he have to worry about a possible future? The only thing he found slightly
reassuring was that his dream seemed to have nothing to do with Bellis, as the
soldiers had displayed no signs of being servants of King Verlamer and could
have come from any kingdom. Perhaps in Ethrin's time, Bellis would be no more.