The Bark of the Bog Owl (2 page)

Jasper and Percy, the Errolson twins, were supposed to be repairing the grape arbor near the manor house. But the rhythmic clanging that sounded from underneath the draping scuppernong vines was the ring of broadsword on broadsword, not the ring of hammer on spike.

The twins had just turned fifteen and were now eligible for service in the Corenwalder army. So all of their spare time—and much of their work time, too, as it turned out—they spent drilling and practicing, sharpening the skills of swordsmanship and cavalry. In this particular duel, it was Percy’s turn to play the foreign invader, a black-armored, black-hearted knight of the hated Pyrthen Empire. Jasper, fighting for Corenwald and King Darrow, was getting the better of him. Percy broke and ran (the Pyrthen always broke and ran in the Errolsons’ military exercises), and Jasper ran after him with raised sword.

“Fly, Pyrthen swine!” called Jasper, “and never set foot on this island again. This is Corenwald, free and true!” He picked up a rock and threw it in his brother’s direction. “Go tell that to Emperor Mareddud!”

Laughing and running down the cart path, Percy sud
denly stopped. Jasper looked to see what had so arrested his brother’s attention. A tall, barrel-chested old man was approaching up the cart path with long, rapid strides. Bright white hair erupted from his head in all directions. His long white beard was equally rambunctious. Two goats, a billy and a nanny, trotted behind him. The Errolsons leaned on their swords and watched the visitor as he approached.

The old man carried no walking stick. He was dressed in a dusty tan robe, and, though it was only May, the hot Corenwald sun had already browned his skin to a deep cinnamon. But the most remarkable thing about the man’s appearance was his pale green eyes. Even from twenty strides away, the Errolsons could see that these were not the eyes of a normal man. When the old man fixed his gaze on Jasper and Percy, they weren’t quite sure if he saw them or not; he seemed to be looking through them.

When he was five strides from the Errolson twins, the man stopped so abruptly that the goats ran into the back of his legs. Gazing into—or through—the Errolsons’ eyes, the old man spoke: “I am here to find the king.”

The twins exchanged a look. Was the old bird off his perch? Percy spoke first. “I’m afraid you’ve overshot it, Grandfather. King Darrow’s palace is a half-day’s march up the River Road, the way you came.”

“I am here to find the king,” the old man repeated. “He dwells in the House of Errol.”

“You’ve come to the House of Errol,” said Jasper. “We are Errol’s sons. But no king is here.”

Percy could never resist a joke. “Perhaps you’re looking for the House of Merrill,” he teased. “His place is just
west of here. But he’s only a chicken farmer, so I don’t see why the king would be there.”

The brothers laughed at Percy’s joke, but if the old man heard it, he gave no indication. The boys’ laughter was cut short when the front door swung open and their father Errol clattered down the steps. They stared in amazement as their father dropped to his knees and kissed the callused hand of the unknown wayfarer. They could make no sense of it. Their father was one of the Four and Twenty Noblemen of Corenwald, one of King Darrow’s closest advisers, yet he was paying homage to this dusty stranger who, from the looks of things, didn’t have the sense God gave a snapping turtle. Errol’s eyes were wet with tears as he spoke. “Reverend friend and teacher, you are most welcome to my house.”

The old man patted Errol’s head, but he didn’t speak or otherwise move. The nanny goat snuffled at Errol’s hair, trying to decide whether to eat it.

“Father!” Jasper marveled. “Do you know this madman?”

Percy broke in. “He thinks we’ve got King Darrow hidden somewhere.”

Errol rose to his feet and glared at his sons. “You will speak respectfully of this man! He is worthy of your honor. He is Bayard the Truthspeaker, Corenwald’s greatest prophet!”

If the twins were amazed before, there were no words for their astonishment now. This man was Bayard the Truthspeaker? The great prophet and counselor their father and grandfather had spoken of so often? Had he
come to this, tramping around the countryside in the company of goats, babbling nonsense?

Errol turned back to Bayard. “It has been twenty years since you last visited this house. To what do we owe this happy honor?”

Bayard pierced Errol with those green eyes and said in a low tone, “I am here to find the king who dwells in the House of Errol.”

Errol blushed slightly and cleared his throat. He glanced at his sons, then looked down at his hands for a few awkward seconds. “What am I thinking?” he suddenly said, with a forced smile. “The sun is blistering. Please, Bayard, come inside and take some refreshment.”

Leaving everyone behind, the old man headed up the stairs leading to the entry hall, taking the steps two at a time. The goats had already mounted the first step when Percy caught them by the horns, one with each hand. “Hold on there, Billy. Hold on, Nan! Where do you think you’re going?”

Bayard stopped on the sixth step but did not turn around: “They go where I go.”

Percy looked to his father. “In that case,” said Errol with a broadening smile, “they are heartily welcome in my house.” Shaking his head in wonderment, Percy let go of the goats’ horns, and they scrambled up the steps to catch up with their master.

Errol spoke to the three baffled servants who had watched the scene through the entry-hall window. One scurried to the kitchen, and the other two ran out the front door. “Let’s retire to the great room,” directed Errol. “What other room is suitable for so great a guest?
Jasper, Percy, you will join us; I have sent servants to fetch your brothers.”

In the great room, Errol placed Bayard in the seat of honor near the huge stone fireplace. The goats sat on the floor, on either side of his chair. Errol and his two sons sat in chairs across from Bayard. The efficient servant arrived immediately with a tray of refreshments and placed it on the hearth beside the old prophet. On the tray were a pitcher of ale for Bayard, a pitcher of water for the goats, three drinking bowls, and a plate of cheese.

“Goat cheese,” offered Errol, suddenly embarrassed. Bayard gave no indication that he had heard him. He poured a bowl of ale and sniffed it. Closing his eyes, he took a sip and nodded approvingly. Then, to the amazement of everyone in the room, he set the ale on the floor in front of the billy goat, who began lapping it eagerly. He poured a second bowl of ale for the nanny. For himself, he poured a bowl of water. He left the cheese untouched.

After a painful silence, Errol addressed his sons. “Bayard here was a friend of your grandfather’s. When they first came to this part of the country, it was nothing but swamp and tanglewood, ruled by panthers, bears, and wolves.” Bayard said nothing; he appeared not to be listening. The billy goat lapped up the last of his ale and burped loud and long.

Errol soldiered on. “Boys, that was a generation of great pioneers. They carved a civilization out of pure wilderness—a place where they wouldn’t answer to any tyrant, only to their consciences and to the God who made them free men.”

The old wayfarer seemed perfectly unaware of anyone
else in the room. Jasper and Percy were embarrassed for their father. They had never seen him so thunderstruck, not even in the presence of King Darrow himself.

After another awkward pause, Errol continued. “I’ve known Bayard all my life. When I first marched out to battle against the Pyrthens—I was about your age—it was Bayard here who pronounced the benediction on the troops.”

Not so much as a flicker of recognition passed across the old man’s face. The nanny goat was chewing thoughtfully on a hanging tapestry that had been in Errol’s family for generations. But at least she seemed to be listening. Percy cast a sidelong glance out the window, hoping that his brothers would soon arrive from the fields. Brennus, the eldest brother, always seemed to know what to say and do. But then again, so did Father, yet Bayard the Truthspeaker was proving to be more than he could handle.

Errol was still droning on, “And when the people of Corenwald decided they wanted a king, who do you think placed the crown on Darrow’s head?” There was a brief silence, and Percy realized his father was looking directly at him, expecting an answer.

“Bayard?” Percy’s answer sounded unsure, like a question, even though his father had told him this story a hundred times.

“The very same! And he remained Darrow’s chief adviser until—” here Errol stopped short. “Well …
ahem
… in any case, the point is, you, my sons, are in the presence of Corenwald’s greatest man—King Darrow excepted, of course.”

Jasper and Percy looked closely at the old visitor. One of his goats was tugging at the sleeve of his robe. The other was chewing on his sandal. He certainly didn’t look like Corenwald’s greatest man, with his white hair and beard shooting off in all directions, and those green eyes staring off into the distance.

Their thoughts were interrupted when two more young men entered the room. They were Brennus and Maynard, the eldest two of the Errolson boys, just in from the hayfield. They had been scything the season’s first hay crop, side by side with the hired hands. Still covered with dust and sweat, Brennus and Maynard stood blinking in the dim light of the great room.

Errol was about to introduce the new arrivals when Bayard rose to his feet. Still gazing well past his audience, he began to chant a verse that all Corenwalders knew. It was the Wilderking Chant—an ancient prophecy, as old as Corenwald itself:

Bayard looked into Errol’s eyes. “I am here to see the Wilderking of Corenwald. He dwells in the House of Errol.”

For the first time, Errol felt himself losing patience with the old man. Errol was a great patriot, and his loyalty to the king was unshakable. “Speak no more of any king but Darrow. Darrow is king of Corenwald, and he dwells not here. I have pledged my allegiance to Darrow; I have risked my life for Darrow; it is by Darrow’s pleasure that I hold these lands. And any man who raises himself up against King Darrow will learn what my sword is made of.”

Bayard seemed entirely indifferent to Errol’s outburst. He paced across the room and stood before Brennus. He studied the eldest Errolson from his head
down to his boots and back up again. At twenty years old, Brennus certainly cut the most kingly figure of all the brothers. He was tall and handsome. He carried himself with an air of command. He was accustomed to getting his way.

Bayard nodded his head. “Your name is Brennus, the eldest son of Errol, by rights the heir to Longleaf. But in your bones you feel that you were born for greater things.” Brennus shifted nervously, uncomfortable at having his secret ambitions spoken in front of his family.

Bayard continued, “Indeed, I see a regal bearing in your face. You are strong of limb, adroit with sword and shield. Men would rejoice to follow such a leader.”

The old prophet gave Brennus one more look, as if arriving at his final assessment: “But you, Brennus, are not the Wilderking.”

Bayard turned next to Maynard, the second brother. In all things, Maynard was second to Brennus: second in age (he was eighteen), second in stature, second in talents. Convinced that he would never quite measure up to his elder brother, Maynard had sharpened the skills of cunning. His eyes were permanently narrow from a lifetime of scheming.

Bayard began, “You are Maynard, Errol’s second son. You know the prize does not always go to the one who is first by birth or first in ability, first in strength, or first in the field. Sometimes the prize—even the prize of a throne—goes to the one who has learned to put himself first, even if birth and talents have not. This you have learned to do, Maynard.” Maynard averted his gaze, angry at having been so revealed, but even still, a greedy
glint was visible in his eyes. Bayard continued, “But you are not the Wilderking.”

Bayard faced the twins. “The twins I have met already: Jasper and Percy. Jasper, you are the scholar of the family. Only fifteen years old, yet you surpass even your father in the lore and history of Corenwald. Every prophecy you have learned by heart, and every date, every battle, every family of note in the kingdom. This is the knowledge that serves a ruler well. A king must know his kingdom.” Jasper stood a little taller; a smile of pride played about the corners of his mouth. “And yet, you are not the Wilderking.”

Bayard turned to Jasper’s twin brother. “That leaves only Percy, does it not?” Percy could not believe what he was hearing. He had always been viewed as the family’s underachiever. His only real accomplishment had been to maintain a wry grin, almost without interruption, for all of his fifteen years. Could he possibly be the Wilderking?