Authors: Christopher Stasheff
“Protect
you?” Culaehra frowned. “From what?”
“From
ogres and trolls and raiders out of the east, young fellow,” the elder told
him. “The land was beset by them twenty years ago. Folk say it is because
Ulahane still twists the unborn into monsters in his stronghold in the ice
mountains far to the north.”
“But
Ulahane is dead!” Yocote protested.
“So
said our young king, with great bravery, and he rode alone into those
mountains, heavily armed and well-armored.”
“He
sought
Ulahane?” Culaehra said, unbelieving.
“Did
I not say but now that he claimed Ulahane was dead? No, he went to seek the god
Agrapax, to whom we all pray here—but he might have found Ulahane instead.”
“Agrapax,
the Wondersmith?” Yocote asked, eyes huge.
“Even
he. King Oramore found the god and asked Agrapax to grant him the means to
protect his people. He swore he would give every year's first fruits to the
god.”
“Agrapax
must have been intrigued by so unselfish a request,” Illbane said.
“The
god was pleased indeed,” the oldster said with a quizzical glance at the sage. “He
gave the king magical armor and told him what strategy and tactics he must use.”
Yocote
frowned up at Illbane. “I had not thought Agrapax was a general.”
“He
was not, but any Ulin could see the ways a battle could be won against humans
or monsters.”
“Are
we younger races such bumblers as that?” the gnome asked.
“No—the
Ulin are so vastly more intelligent.” Illbane turned to the old man. “Your king
triumphed, then.”
“Aye.”
The man was eyeing him strangely. “He gathered his men and led them to battle
against an ogre. They slew the beast, saving the maiden it had stolen.
Heartened, the men followed him with a will to his next battle, where they slew
a dragon. Only one or two soldiers died—”
“But
never the king.” Culaehra's lip curled.
“Certainly
not; he wore enchanted armor. One by one they slew the monsters or drove them
out of this valley, and when next the barbarians came driving down from the
mountain passes, the king tricked them into an ambush and slew many of them;
the others fled for their lives.” His eyes shone. “Oh, we were proud of him
then. It was ten years and more before the bandits rode this way again, and he
fell upon them as well then as he had before.”
“A
bright beginning indeed,” Illbane said. “When did he change?”
“At
the first harvest. As they were bringing in the sheaves, a stranger came to the
castle and rebuked the king for giving so much to the god when the people were
nearly starving. He challenged King Oramore to put on a peasant's tunic and
leggings and go among us, to witness our suffering with his own eyes. The king
was never one to turn aside from a challenge; he came among us in disguise and
was stricken to the heart when he saw how gaunt we were, how poorly fed and
how. frequently ill. He went back to his castle, thanked the stranger
profusely, and appointed him steward, then broke the bargain, keeping the first
fruits in his storehouses to protect us against famine. When we people learned
what he had done, we trembled with fear of the god's revenge.” His mouth
twisted. “Now we long for it, to end our suffering! Agrapax could hurt us no
worse than the king's greed!”
“Perhaps
that
is
the god's punishment,” Illbane said quietly. “Perhaps it will
last until you take it upon yourselves to find a way of keeping the bargain on
the king's behalf—after all, he struck it on
your
behalf. But how did
this king, who thought only of the welfare of his people, come to think only of
himself?”
“His
new steward advised him to take all our harvest into his granaries and
storehouses, then dole it out to us as we needed— but to give back far less
than he took, for thus would the king be ready to provide for us if drought
struck, and prevent famine. King Oramore did as he was advised, and for the
first few seasons we were well-fed and well-clothed, though we lived always in
the shadow of fear of Agrapax's anger.”
“Only
the first few seasons?” Illbane asked. “Why did hardship come?”
“Because
Malconsay the steward said that it was his office to see to thrift, and bade
the king save more, always more. He bade him, too, to sell grain and buy steel
for his smiths to make weapons and harness for his soldiers, to ward against
the bandits. He increased the number of days we serfs had to give in labor, to
make the king's castle higher and stronger. Then he found a wife for the king,
and she wanted comfort and brightness in her quarters, that she might rear her
children in safety. She gave him five children, and he proved a doting father,
wanting more, ever more, for them; he sold grain to buy it. Then she wished to
go to the court of the high king and take all her brood with her, that they
might grow in culture and meet others of their own station; King Oramore sold
more grain to send her there, and ever more to keep them all, then to take
himself there twice a year .. .”
“So
the steward planted the seed of greed, then found a queen to nurture and
encourage it,” Illbane interpreted.
“Even
so,” the old man agreed. “Every year the king took more and more and kept it
for himself and his family, until we suffered as badly from his taxes as we had
from the raiders and monsters.”
“The
caitiff!” Culaehra cried. “The thief, the knave! An oath-breaker and a
serf-miller, who grinds up those for whom he should care? Nay, he is worse than
any bandits that haunt the highway, for they only take what people have with
them, but this robber king also takes all that you ever will have!”
The
villagers shrank from his wrath. Kitishane and the gnomes stared at Culaehra,
amazed, for his face had darkened and the veins stood out on his throat and his
forehead. “Nay, friend, ease your heart,” Yocote urged. “It is not you from
whom they steal, nor your belly that is empty from this king's greed.”
“Hurt
to any peasant is hurt to all!” Culaehra stormed. “If we let this forsworn
grasper steal from his own, we imperil ail who labor in the shadows of the
lords! Oh, believe me, my friends, if it was wrong for me to beat you and shame
you when I had the strength, it is just as wrong for this King Oramore to treat
his people as muzzled oxen! What farmer would abuse his plough team as this corrupted
king has abused his serfs?”
“To
treat them as his cattle, his kine, when he should think of them as his own
kind?” Yocote's smile was hard. “I think there is truth in your words, rogue.”
Culaehra
scowled at him, unsure whether he had been complimented or insulted, but
Illbane nodded with approval. “Well said, Yocote, well said indeed! Yes,
Culaehra, it is wrong, very wrong, for a king to treat his people so. However,
there is no point in punishing the king unless you free him from the steward
who has corrupted him.”
Culaehra
turned to him, frowning. “Why, how is that?”
“Chastise
the king, and the steward will only corrupt him again when you have gone your
way. Slay the king, and the steward will corrupt his heir—if the mother he
chose has not already done so.”
“How
now!” Culaehra faced him, hands on his hips. “Must I slay both the steward and
his master to free these folk?”
The
serfs drew back with a gasp of horror.
“You
must not slay the king, or his heir will be worse,” Illbane instructed. “But
you must slay the steward and warn the king against his kind, for I doubt not
that both he and the queen were agents of Bolenkar, sent to turn the king
against his own people, and the people against the king.” He turned to the
serfs. “Has there been none among you who have counseled rebellion?”
They
glanced at one another nervously; then the elder said, “Aye ... there is a
soldier who comes alone to bedevil our daughters, then harangues us all for
cowards when they turn him away.”
“He,
too, is an agent of the hating son of the human-hater,” Illbane told them, “but
it is the steward whom you must fear most, for he is the chief of these
corrupters. Without him, the king has only to come among you again as one of
you to realize what he has done, what he has become.”
“Then
I shall slay the steward!” Culaehra turned on his heel and marched off toward
the castle.
“Culaehra,
wait!” Kitishane cried, running after him. “Go straight into that den of
thieves, and you will be slain straightaway!”
“None
need come with me who does not wish to,” the big man tossed back over his
shoulder. “As for me, I go to fight for the right!”
Kitishane
stared, then ran after him again. She had only gone a few paces before she
realized that Illbane was right beside her. “What have you done to him?” she
gasped. “When I met him, he scarcely believed anything was wrong and only what
he wanted was right!”
“He
knew better,” Illbane said, smiling. “I had only to bring it out in him.”
Behind
him the gnomes ran flat out, goggles bobbing, breath rasping, though Yocote
managed a few curses.
They
caught up with Culaehra and gratefully slowed to a fast walk or, in the gnomes'
case, a slow trot. One look at the warrior's face and they put aside all
thoughts of asking him to slacken his pace.
Halfway
to the castle, soldiers suddenly rose from the hedges that lined the road,
halberds at the ready. Half a dozen of them leaped into the road before the
companions; half a dozen more closed the gap behind them. “Fools!” the sergeant
sneered. “Did you think the king has no spies among the villagers? The sentry
on the castle battlements saw you come into the village green and sent a runner
to tell the king. He went on with half his bodyguard and left this other half
here to greet you—and a villager ran to tell us what you have said of him! Now,
state your business, for we'll not hang you without giving you a chance to deny
it.”
Yocote
was mumbling and gesturing; even Lua was clearly trying to nerve herself to
fight. But Culaehra's eyes narrowed; he gathered himself to charge.
“Hold!”
Kitishane cried. “We wished to go to the king, did we not?”
Culaehra
looked up, startled, and the tension seemed to bleed out of him as
understanding came into his eyes. He gave a wolfish grin, and Yocote stopped
mumbling, staring in surprise. Illbane nodded slowly, smiling approval, and
Culaehra turned to the sergeant, still grinning. “Our business? Our business is
with the king, soldier! Take us to him!”
“Oh,
we'll take you to him, right enough,” the sergeant answered. “We'll take you to
him alive, but we'll take you
from
him with your death warrants in our
pockets! Come along, then—but you should have been more careful in thinking
what you wanted!”
The
rest of the soldiers stepped from the hedges onto the road, surrounding the
prisoners in a hollow rectangle, and the sergeant marched them up the hill
toward the castle.
Lua
tugged at Illbane's robe. He looked down with an inquiring smile, then reached
down and swung the gnome onto his shoulder. “Illbane,” she whispered in his
ear, “I'm afraid of what Culaehra will do when he sees the king!”
“But
not of what the king may do to him?”
Lua
frowned, considering the matter, then shook her head. “No—I had only thought of
what Culaehra might do.”
“Such
confidence in your companion is much to be desired,” Illbane told her, “but you
might give a thought to the fact that he is vastly outnumbered.”
Lua
did, pursing her lips in thought, then said, “That still does not worry me.
Why?”
“An
interesting question,” Illbane replied. “Let us watch and see if Culaehra has
an answer.”
* * *
The
king's great hall was luxurious, its paneling glowing with wax and constant
polishing, the tapestries new and intricately worked. The king's huge carved
chair stood on a high dais, and he wore a coronet about his brows. He may have
been young and burning with zeal once, but now he was middle-aged, paunchy, and
cynical. There was a hint of cruelty in his smile as he said, “So you have
business with me? The business of slaying my steward, perhaps?”
Behind
his chair a lean man in brocade gave a mirthless smile.
Culaehra
gathered himself, eyes narrowing, but Kitishane stayed him with a hand on his
arm, and Illbane said, “You are well-informed. Still, Sir Malconsay, we will
leave you your life if you quit this kingdom at once, never to return, and go
home to your true master.”
Alarm
flickered in Malconsay's eyes, but King Oramore said, “I may leave
you
your life, if you do not attempt to escape my dungeon. How now, wanderer! Do
you accuse my steward of spying?”
“No,
king, I accuse him of subversion—of subverting you from the course set by your
bargain with Agrapax. Expel this tempter and seek your peace with the
Wondersmith! Honor your bargain with him before your bad faith dooms you!”
Oramore
laughed, and the sound must have restored the steward's composure, for he added
his own thin chuckle and said, “Foolish vagabond! Surely the god would have
stricken the king down before this, if he cared at all!”
“The
wills of the gods work slowly, but when they have set all in readiness, they strike
with devastation,” Illbane told him. “Moreover, this Ulin may have other
matters that capture his attention—Agrapax was ever single-minded—but when he
grows bored, he may remember you, and strike!”
The
king frowned. “Who are you, who speak of the gods as if you know them as one to
another?”
Foreboding
came back into Malconsay's eyes.
“One
who has studied them long and intensely,” Illbane returned. “However, I did not
say that Agrapax would strike you down—though he may, he may—but that your own
bad faith would doom you!”