ONCE A HERO
A Bantam Spectra Book I May 1994

SPECTRA and the portrayal of a boxed "s" are trademarks of Bantam Books,
a division of Bantam Doubteday Dell Publishing Group, Inc.

All rights reserved.

Copyright © 1994 by Michael A. Stackpole.

Cover an copyright © 1994 by Kevin Johnson.

Map copyright © 1994 by Elizabeth T. Danfonh.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by

any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by

any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing

from the publisher.

For information address: Bantam Books.

If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this
book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the
publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment
for this "stripped book."

ISBN 0-553-56112-X
Published snnultaneousty in the United States and Canada

Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Bantam Double-
day Dell Publishing Group, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words "Ban-
tam Books" and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and
Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books,
1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036.

HUNTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

BAD   n<*a7n;'i4i-»i

This book is dedicated to
Jim Fitzpatrick

As an artist, the pictures he paints are worth
far more than a thousand words, and as an author,
his understanding of heroes and heroism laid the
foundation for much of this work.




Acknowledgments

This work could not have been completed without the help
or influence of the following individuals:

Janna Silverstein, Ricia Mainhardt, Jennifer Roberson,
and Liz Danforth. who, as the Four Horsewomen of the
Apocalypse, promised me disaster if I didn't get this book
right. All four of them endured the telling of chunks of this
tale while I worked on it, and their forbearance was greatly
appreciated.

Dennis L. McKiernan, Aiis Rasmussen, and Kate Elliot,
who provided insights into fantasy and character that en-
abled me to pick out key points for emphasis. All three of
them, in addition to Jennifer Roberson, are great story-
tellers, and if you've not read them, you are missing a
bet.

Ron Wolfley, Brian and Frances Gross, and Bob and
Patty Vardeman, who asked questions and made me defend
points that helped determine the direction and content of
this book.

Chris Harvey who went above and beyond the call of
duty in locating a Maltese/English English/Maltese dictio-
nary for me.

Sam Lewis and Brian Fargo who were patient in al-
lowing me to indulge myself in writing the book.

And, as always, my parents, Jim and Janet; my brother,
Patrick, and his wife Joy; my sister, Kerin, and again Liz,
who supplied the support and encouragement that made it
possible for me to finish the job.

Prologue

A Night's Adventure
in Jammaq

_x

Midsummers Eve

Five Centuries Ago

My Twenty-second Birthday

The high-mountain night breezes whipped through the
dark canyons of the Reithrese charnel town and greeted me
with cold razor kisses on my eyes. The chill thin air whis-
tled and moaned as it broke around comers and over the
myriad gargoyles decorating Jammaq. Not for the first time
I wondered why I had traveled so far to put myself in the
heart of a city sacred to a people who, as a race, had sworn
to kill me.

As always, the same answer came to my question: the
sword. And that answer satisfied me. Though I had seen it
only once, and on that occasion had felt its steely caress a
number of times, I knew the blade was meant to be mine.
And if possessing it required me to chase it to the gates of
^    the Cold Goddess's Realm or beyond, I was prepared to go
that far.

I shivered in my stolen clothes and let a steamy sigh get
whipped away by the wind. Obsession breeds foolishness
the way stale water breeds mosquitoes, and folks would

2    Michael A. Stackpole

describe our efforts as foolishness if my Elven companion
and I failed in our quest. Still and all, no one else had ever
done what Aarundel and I had accomplished so far in our
mission, and I took some delight in that fact even if he did
not.

I winked at Aarundel. "Don't go thinking of it as grave
robbing, Aarundel, think of it as ... as mining ore for
bards to refine into golden song."

"I never thought it my destiny to be lauded before ine-
briates in a song titled. The True Death of the Dun
Wolf.'" Aarundel tugged the red scarf away from his
mouth and hunched his shoulders. That trimmed four
inches off his height, making him shorter than I am. The
loose-fitting black natari cassocks we wore added enough
bulk to his slender build to let him pass for a Reithrese,
though both of us were too tall to fool anyone with one eye
open and enough sense to recognize AarundePs pointed
ears poking up through his black hair.

Of course, anyone with that much sense was well away
from here.

The ElPs dark eyes glittered in the wan moonlight. "I
have half a mind to leave now."

"If you had half a mind, you'd not have come here at
all."

The Elf shook his head ruefully. "Clearly my faculties
have been atrophied by five years of association with you."

"I'm thinking it's our dying that has befuddled you."

"Ah, yes, to be dead in the city of the dead. The concept
amused, but the reality has failed to satisfy expectation."
He spat at the nearest building. "This is a foul place."

"Foul it is, and fairly we will quit it, when we are
done." Looking about through the dark-shrouded streets, I
thought "foul" a rather mild adjective, for death haunted
the city of Jammaq. The wind kept it cold, even in high
summer, though I had no complaint about that. Growing
up in the Roclaws, I had been born in an unseasonable
blizzard and had spent more time walking on snow and ice
than in spring-green meadows.

With ourselves being the exception, not a living crea-
ture walked the cobbled streets in the Reithrese city of the
dead that night. The swirling wind brought with it the rot-

Once a Hero   3

scent of decaying meat, and that made taking every step
toward the center of the city a battle. I pulled the natari
scarf up over my nose again and let the wet-wool scent
mask the death stench so I could go forward.

I had no idea what the Reithrese envisioned when they
created Jammaq, but I could see what it had become over
the centuries and centuries. Streets ran haphazard through
the city, like cracks in ice, without rhyme and certainly
with little reason. The outlying buildings, none over a sin-
gle story tall, sprouted comers as a bird would feathers.
Odd blocks jutted out, studding the walls with stone
thorns so thick that even a rat would be hard pressed to
find shadowed space large enough in which to hide. That
fact had caused my friend and I no end of anxiety, until we
both discovered that all but a few of the buildings were
empty, and those that were not, advertised their condition
with loud music and thin slivers of light limning tight-
closed shutters and doors.

If it weren't enough that all the buildings had been
blackwashed, each had been decorated in a most horrible
manner. Gargoyles big and small, ancient and new-carved,
perched on lintels and hung from eaves. They grew like
warts from the buildings, snarling outward with fearsome
fangs bared. Moving through the night, I could feel a
thousand eyes watching us, but nary a one connected to a
brain that could think or a mouth that could raise an
alarm.

The inhabited houses in Jammaq were not that different
from their silent, dark companions. Music, likely intended
to keep out the ghostly howl of the wind, pinpointed them
even before we saw light. We snuck past them like spectres
ourselves, but the risk of discovery remained low. There
was a chance that someone might look out if we accidenrly
made a noise, but we had taken precautions against discov-
ery in that event as well.

Our dark trousers and robes, colorful scarf and sash,
and the beaded-leather quitawi dangling from our right
wrists, marked us as members of the natari. Perhaps more
feared among the Reithrese than the ghosts lost m the city's
street-maze, the militant guardians of Reithrese religious
tradition had a reputation for brutal, cold cruelty in the

4    Michael A. Stackpole

prosecution of their duties. They were inviolate, and no
one was immune from their judgment, so everyone avoided
them. So arrogant and confident in their roles were they
that the two we waylaid to obtain our disguises had been
shocked that we dared strike them.

We came to a crossroad, and I lashed the quirt against
my left palm as I looked around for directions. To the
southwest I could see the tower complex for which we
were bound. Towers of all heights and thicknesses stabbed
into the air like a multifingered hand clawing stars from the
night sky. The flickering orange glow from the center of the
tower-circle pulsed out enough light to mold the towers
themselves into grasping silhouettes.

"Do you think the natari have no street signs here to
confuse the ghosts, or to earn money guiding families to
their lodgings here and back out again?"

"More the latter than the former, I would imagine, but
not having seen a ghost so far, I think their efforts in that
direction are at least partially successful." Resting his war
ax across his knees, Aarundel crouched down and reached
out with a long-fingered hand to push at a couple of cob-
blestones. "None are loose, Neal."

I frowned. The city of the dead had no street signs and
few enough landmarks beyond the tower silhouettes. So
far, operating on the idea that the gargoyles were all meant
to scare ghosts from the tower back into it, we had been
keeping the stone faces at our back. Here, though, the gar-
goyles faced us from one alley and looked away down two
roads. The broader street curved off and away, while the
narrower one seemed to continue dead west. Loose stones
might have'marked which way others had gone before, but
Aarundel's report dashed that hope.

I dropped to my haunches beside him. "Being as how
the Reithrese and Elves are both Eider races, how would
you mark them as balancing ceremony with practicality?"

Aarundel's head came up, and scorn echoed through his
harsh whisper. "They are a vulgar and ostentatious race,
given to frivolous display."

"And probably not very pleased with the prospect of
spending much time here at their grisly doings, eh?' I

Once a Hero   5

glanced at the weathering of the gargoyles in both the wide
and skinny roads. "We'll take this one, then, my friend.
There's enough of a difference that says the wide is new
and not for us."

The Elf nodded and headed off down the narrow road-
way, with me quick at his heels. Neither one of us had
much scholarship in the ways of the Reithrese—though
Aarundel could manage their angular tongue—but we
knew just enough about their religious fetishes for me to
hatch my plot and for Aarundel to imagine it might suc-
ceed. What was born as an "I wonder" teamed up with a
couple of "we really shoulds," and before reason could
rear her fair head and dissuade us, we rode for the moun-
tains and invaded Jammaq in search of a sword.

The Reithrese, being bound to the goddess of the under-
world—called Reithra by those of us who had no need or
desire to know her true name—have some peculiar rites
when it comes to the treatment of the dead. Being like men
in all ways except the length of their life, the power they
command, and their hateful nature toward outsiders, the
Reithrese bring their dead to Jammaq. They entomb them
in the tower, with lesser folk being stored higher up—fur-
ther distant from their goddess—and the great and mighty
lying in the bosom of the earth herself.

A year or so later, weather willing and bandits bribed,
the relatives of the deceased return to open the tomb. They
clean the bones and put them in a box to be carried back to
Alatun or one of the other Reithrese cities to be kept in
family shrines. Finally, as part of the funeral, the dead's
possessions, which were stored with him in that first year,
are auctioned off to the person who can make the best case
for why he should inherit the item in question.

"And no one can make a better case for owning my
sword than I," I mumbled as we wound our way down a
snake-twist road.

Despite my words being muffled in the scarf,
Aarundel's sharp ears heard my remark. "Your sword?
Khiephnaft was never your sword, my friend.'"

"It's a fated blade, Aarundel, you've said so yourself. It
has to be mine."

6    Michael A. Stackpole

"I must have missed seeing the name Neal Rociawzi in
reading the various prophecies concerning the sword."

"It's there, unless someone like Finndaii has been revis-
ing texts, and you know that for the truth." I turned left
onto a broad boulevard that arced on down toward the
towers. "Besides, you know Tashayul wanted me to have
it. Cleaveheart is mine; he declared it so during his speech
dedicating Jarudin to Reithra,"

Aarundel's dark eyes flashed from above his scarf.
"That would be a rather broad interpretation of, 'Neal is
the last person in the world I want to have this sword!'
would it not?"

"It loses something in the translation." I smiled devil-
ishly. "In the original I'd wager he was more eloquent in
describing how I should get the blade."

"This I believe sincerely."

Tashayul had no reason to want me to have anything
but his undying enmity. The Reithrese people had once
possessed a vast empire that had extended from ocean to
deserts and back again. Over the centuries it had begun to
shrink, as nations of men split off and proclaimed their
own independence. The Reithrese contented themselves
with a commonwealth for a while, then let a Human em-
pire nibble away at their borders. Five hundred years ago
they even accepted Elven intervention in the affairs of what
had been their empire. The days of Reithrese glory had
faded for all time.

At least it seemed that way to all but the Reithrese.
Being long-lived—both because of their nature and the cha-
otic, elemental magicks they had mastered—they took an
almost Elven view of mayfly Humanity. In addition to their
perspective, they had another thing that made waiting and
tolerating all possible for them. Like a dagger hidden in a
boot, they had a prophecy, and this prophecy said their
empire would be born anew.

Tashayul and his brother, Takrakor, determined
through the former's cunning and the latter's magicks, that
they were the individuals fated to reunify the old empire
under their leadership. They started a crusade in which
their troops committed atrocities that almost served to

Once a Hero   7

eclipse the excesses of the Eldsaga in their ferocity. The
brothers let it be known that they intended to slay or en-
stave all Men within the borders of what had once been
their empire. Humanity, politically fractured and without
leadership, had no way to oppose them.

What Men needed was a hero. Having been proclaimed
a hero by sayers of sooth since my birth, I came to see the
Reithrese war as the crucible in which I would be tested.
We Rociawzi had long prided ourselves in our warrior tra-
dition, and the Reithrese had never beaten us before in a
fight. Because I had been born on Midsummer's Eve—in a
blizzard and beneath a triangle of full moons—great things
were expected of me. The storm, the Triangle, and even
one event hiding the other were all omens that could be
taken for good or ill as appropriate and caused me to feel I
had been born to be the sort of hero who could stop the
Reithrese. In answering my call to duty, I forged a sword,
mounted a horse, and headed down out of the mountains
to lay claim to a legend or to lie still in an anonymous
grave.

It was a time of chaos in which the whole of the world
was filled with as many horrors as Jammaq itself. To the
Reithrese, men were not really much more than demi-oxen
who could guide their bigger brethren at the plow. While
this did place us a bit higher in the scheme of things than in
the average Elven view, it didn't spare many lives. As I rode
west, I heard refugee tales of villages being burned, babies
being drowned like kittens in rivers, and all resistance be-
ing crushed wherever a defense was raised.

It took no alchemist to see one thing about the
Reithrese probes: they ranged far out and away from the
main battle lines in Ispar. The only good thing about being
pointed out as a heroborn among a warrior people is that
my training involved heavy doses of military strategy and
tactics. To be truthful, among my people a frightening war
cry counts for more than either strategy or tactics, but I
enjoyed the study of both, so I was given as much as I
wanted,

It struck me that while the fight for Ispar raged on, the
Reithrese were spending an inordinate amount of time in

8    Michael A. Stackpole

the mountains of Esquihir. Not having wanted to head into
the world utterly ignorant, I had read of Reithrese history
and tactics- From my reading I recalled a previous and
painfully short-lived campaign by another Reithrese gen-
eral that had ended in those mountains. His effort had been
unremarkable—and it failed because internal Reithrese
politics eroded his support—but he was supposed to have
borne a magical sword said to confer immortality upon the
warrior who wielded it and to guarantee that warrior the
winning of an empire.

Tashayul clearly wanted that sword.

That meant I wanted it as well.

Khiephnaft had been lost to common knowledge, but
Tashayul's torturers turned up some clues to its location.
Full of the innocent enthusiasm of youth, I killed horses in
my mad dash across Barkol's grassy oceans, and killed
Reithrese in Ispar's southern reaches. Fearful humans gave
me shelter and supplies on my trek. When I let them know
that I had come from the mountains with a sword I meant
to use to kill Tashayul, tongues loosened and directions
flowed freely.

Hoping against hope that the foolish youth from the
Roclaws might do what no other human had managed—
the Triangle birth working to inspire hope—folks pointed
me toward a small Jistani convent in the Esquihir moun-
tains. They claimed Cleaveheart had been kept by the nuns
as a weapon meant for a champion sworn to Jistan to use
in destroying his enemies. I'd never been very religious—
the gods are perverse and like torturing Men with dire
predicaments—but I was willing to offer an oath to Jistan
if he'd lend me the blade.

Of course, I was not alone in wanting to get my hands
on that blade. What people told me freely, and the
Reithrese had to torture out of folks, had almost been for-
gotten by the Elves. For reasons of their own, they wanted
this blade that they called Divisator. Aarundel said that
meant "Sunderer," but that was long after we first met. So,
while Tashayul and 1 raced for it, coming from the east and
the west, the Elves came in from the north.

I arrived on the site first, and the nuns welcomed me as

Once a Hero   9

if I were indeed the champion for whom they waited- I
asked to take possession of Cleaveheart immediately, but
the abbess avowed that Jistan had specified a number of
rituals before the blade could be given over to my keeping.

I pressed her on this point. "I'm thinking, good Sister
Constance, that Most High Jistan would understand about
the urgency of the situation."

"Were that true, Nea! Roclawzi, he would have given
us a sign." Her face closed up in all the sign I needed to
know I was doomed to wait.

Tashayu! and his Skull-riders arrived as I was sleeping
off a long ride and a full meal. The nuns, given the choice
between death or surrender of the sword and my person,
found themselves divinely inspired to declare me a heretic.
This they did while I slumbered. I awoke from a dream
about wrestling a snake to find myself bound hand and
foot.

Standing beside the abbess, I watched from a balcony as
a trio of nuns bore Cleaveheart to Tashayui. "No rituals,
Sister?"

"We have had our sign, Neal Snaketongue." The nun
eyed me sternly. "If you are truly Jistan's champion, He, in
His divine wisdom, will find a way to unite you with the
blade."

Watching Tashayul take practice cuts down in the
courtyard, I had a feeling he, too, had a way to unite me
with the blade, causing me to wonder if what I had taken
as good omens were not so good after all. With the dawn's
rose light glowing from the long serpentine blade's single
razor edge, and the sword whistling as it sliced the air,
wondering became knowing and I knew I'd seen my last
dawn.

Two of Tashayul's guards accepted custody of me from
the nuns and brought me down into the convent's court-
yard. I towered over both my warders, but that was to be
expected, as Reithrese tend to be slightly shorter than the
average man. Even so their stocky Reithrese builds mocked
my gangling limbs. In the few combats I had fought against
their kind, my quickness and reach had made up for what I
surrendered to them in strength. Hobbled by a short length

10    Michael A. Stackpole

of rope and with my arms bound behind me, those advan-
tages went the way of my faith in Jistan.

Coming into the courtyard, perspective on, Tashayal
changed and with it changed my assessment of him. Unlike
his fellows, Tashayul and 1 could see eye to eye, which
made him quite remarkable among the Reithrese. Stripped
to the waist, Tashayul moved quickly and smoothly, with
thick muscles sliding effortlessly beneath sweat-sheened
skin that had been darkened by long exposure to the sun.
His black hair had been pulled back into a ponytail that
fell midway down his spine. Successful cuts at imaginary
foes brought a smile to his face, peeling his lips back to
reveal a mouth full of emerald teeth.

A booted foot applied to the back of my legs drove me
to my knees in front of Tashayul- The Reithrese slashed the
blade within a hair's-breadth of my nose, then sheathed
Cleaveheart in one fluid, practiced motion. He took my
straight, double-edged sword from one of his human slaves
and bared it. He flipped it over and back, then tested the
weight of it in his sword hand. He sighted down the edges
of the blade, then leaned on the sword as if it were a cane
and he a Kaudian dandy on a seaside promenade.

"You meant to kill me with this?" His voice came as
hard as his dark-eyed stare, but I caught in both a theatri-
cality meant to frighten me mightily.

"You should not be thinking that, m'lord. 'Tis a moun-
tain tradition to be inscribing the name of a warrior one
wishes to honor on a blade." I tried to smile up at him, but
one of the guards crashed a backhanded cuff over my right
ear.

Tashayul frowned at the soldier and shook his head.
"I take it the telling of tall tales is another Roclawzi tradi-
tion? Or are you not this Neal of which my spies have told
me?" He opened his arms, pointing my sword skyward,
and took in the whole of the aging monastery with his
gesture "Is this not the place where you said you would
kill me?"

"L said nothing of the kind, m'lord." I answered him
truthfully, for I'd never specified a place for us to meet. I
had been too intent on discovering the resting place of

Once a Hero   11

Cleaveheart to make those kinds of boasts. I had assumed
I'd have enough time to make them after I found the blade.

Tashayul laughed aloud, and I saw the Reithrese loung-
ing around the courtyard smile in response. "Foolish little
Neal, you gave these wretched people hope. They told you
where to find Khiephnaft because they dearly wanted
you to destroy me. And then they told my spies where I
would find you to speed the process. Before that, I knew
not where to find this wondrous blade. I am in your
debt."

I returned his gracious nod. "Well met, then. As you
have no further need for my service, we can speak of repay-
ment at another time." I started to get to my feet, but
rough hands pressed me back down to the ground.

"I may yet have need of your service, Neal." Tashayul
handed my sword to a slave. "How old are you, boy?"

I squinted at the horizon and searched the sky for con-
stellations before the dawn's rosy glow could devour them,
all the while carefully choosing the words for my lie. "This
being midsummer and a bit south of my home, I'd admit to
twenty summers." In my travels I'd heard of an augury that
a foe a score summers in age would be his death, so I
decided to pitch some fear back at him-

The Reithrese general shook his head and pinched the
pale, hairless flesh over my heart- "If I were to believe that,
I would believe you carry Elven blood, for you have ma-
tured very slowly. . . ."

An offended voice from behind me cut the general off.
"Beware who you slander with your musings, Tashayul."

I pulled away from the Reithrese and twisted around to
look at the company of Men standing in the courtyard
gateway. At least at first I took them for Men because,
from my perspective, their height was not particularly no-
ticeable. The edge of the sun backed them with yellow-fire,
so all I could see were silhouettes. Only when one moved
so I could see the odd curve to his bow and another doffed
his huntsman's hood to let me see pointed ears did I realize
the interlopers were Elves, not Men.

From the forge to the anvil, I groaned to myself. At
least with the Reithrese I had a chance of being made a

12    Michael A. Stackpole

slave. With the Elves, well, the Eldsaga gave me a iegion of
fates to choose from with the Elves. Still and all, the Elves
and the Reithrese were never known for their cordial rela-
tions-

Tashayul folded his arms across his broad chest. "Impe"
rator Finndali, to what do I owe this dubious honor? Has
this Man been threatening to end your life as well?"

The Elven leader dismissed me with a shake of his head.
"Were he worthy of notice—say your speculation about his
blood had veracity—he would be rapeget, and I would ter-
minate his life- The Consilliarii have taken an interest in
this Khiephnaft. I was sent to obtain it for them."

TashayuFs eyes narrowed. "I see. I have a pressing need
for it. Do you want it now?" As he asked his question, his
soldiers became more alert. They shifted positions to sup-
ply cover from Elven arrows or to bring weapons to hand
easily.

The Elf shook his head with a motion that dropped his
green leather hunting-hood back, freeing his fine black
hair. "How long do you need it?"

The Reithrese shrugged. "Fifty years, I think. By then
our rule will be restored."

"An ambitious schedule."

Tashayul glanced down at me. "Once we destroy their
breeding stock, we expect resistance to crumble. We
learned that from you, in fact."

Finndali smiled in a way that sent a rime asp wriggling
through my entrails. "Fifty years, then. I will have it from
you at that time."

I forced myself to laugh. "You're supposing, of course,
the good general will have it at that time. Fifty years will a
lot of battles bring."

"But battles waged against your kind, Man."

I nodded over at the slave holding my broadsword.
"Those edges opened Reithrese veins easy enough. Lest
you're mindful of a way to use arrogance as armor, I'd
wager he's not got two score ten years left to him." I did
some quick math in my head. "I'm thinking he'll sup at
death's table in less than four."

Tashayul chuckled as he shook his head and let mock

Once a Hero   13

surprise wash over his face. "Only four years? How did
you arrive at that number?"

I decided not to tell him that were the prophecy about
his death true, I'd need those years to prepare. I lied in-
stead. "A year each for the conquest of Ispar, Barkol, and
Irtysh, which brings you to the Roclaws four years hence."

"The Roclaws? Do you truly think your mountain
tribesmen can defeat me?"

I shrugged. "If they saw you as a serious threat, don't
you think they would have sent more than me to kill you?"

I heard a couple of the Elves laugh at my question,
though a stern glance from their leader silenced them. I
looked at Finndali. "Were I you, m'lord, I would take the
blade now. You would find its price dear if you were to
require Cleaveheart from the hand of a Roclawzi."

The Elf ignored me. "I find these younglings quite do-
lorous in general, but this one is a particular annoyance.
Too moronic to be properly terrified."

"Pathetic." Tashayul drew Khiephnaft and presented it
hilt first to Finndali. "I had thought to vet the blade's abili-
ties by slaying him myself, but I will grant you this honor."

"Your offer is appreciated and laced with temptation,
but it is your blade."

"And you dishonor it," I spat at the both of them.
"Turning that fine piece of war-steel into a butcher's
hatchet. Blades are what they learn, and you can't teach
warring with an execution."

"Youngling superstition," scoffed the Elf.

Tashayul agreed with a nod. "Silly mountain non-
sense."

"Mayhap be, but my sword learned well the drinking of
Reithrese blood." Summoning a contemptuous scowl to
my face, I looked from Elf to Reithrese, then raised my chin
to expose my throat. "Kill me. I'll have no more of the
company of cowards who dare not examine the lessons my
'blade has mastered."

The Reithrese conqueror threw his head back in a
hearty laugh. "Is that what you want. Mad Neal? You
want a chance to fight me?"

"I was thinking I wanted to kill you, but I'll settle for

14    Michael A. Stackpole

the latter." I shrugged. "Of course, I'm not so close to
newborn that I'd expect a fair fight."

That brought the general around and even appeared to
spark some interest in Finndali's eyes. "The fight has not
even begun, yet you already accuse me of treachery?"

"I'd be more charitable were I not wearing these ropes.
I'll be facing a battle veteran with a special sword."

"Ah, but you were bragging that you had slam a num-
ber of my kinsmen."

I frowned. "True. Still, there is the matter of the blade
and this fine company you have gathered around you."

The Reithrese watched me closely. "You have a com-
promise to suggest?"

"Since I'm just lighting you, not killing you, I'm think-
ing that if I pink you with my blade, I should be allowed
my life and a day's ride."

"Else you might be forced to kill me and my warriors?"

I let Tashayul's sarcastic tone pass unnoticed. "I might
take pity on them and only wound them, but I'm thinking
that's the likely result, m'lord."

The Reithrese eyed me up and down, then nodded
slowly. "Blood me with your blade and I will give you four
years. Four years to prepare the Roclaws for my wrath."

I swallowed hard and nodded. "Done."

"Good."

"One more thing."

A pained look passed over TashayuFs face. "What is

it?"

I nodded toward the Elven leader. "If my pinking
should kill you, Khiephnaft is mine. I want it from his
lips."

Tashayul shrugged. "For the sake of the fight, m'lord?"
The Elf nodded. "Aarundel, his bonds."
Another Elf left the company of his fellows and ap-
proached me. Holding his bow and a nocked arrow in his
right hand, and a bared dagger in his left, he dropped to
one knee beside me. The knife's edge made short work of
the ropes. I slapped him on the shoulder, prompting a
shudder in his captain that this Aarundel did not echo.
"My thanks."

Once a Hero   IS

Aarundel nodded. "Success in your sanguineous de-


voir.

"Enough, Aarundel, return to your place." Finndali
opened his hands apologetically to Tashayul. "Youth and
their perception of the world . . ."

"No matter." Tashayul held out his right arm, and two
slaves slid onto it a mailed dueling sleeve. It covered him
from the back of his hand to shoulder, then over his right
breast and shoulderblade. A black leather strap bound it to
him across his chest and beneath his left armpit. He moved
his arm around, the rings rustling as he did so, to test how
much it restricted his movement. If it did at all, I was think-
ing, it was not near enough to comfort me.

I held my right arm out for similar sheathing, but a
slave just shoved my sword's hilt into my right hand. "Not
even a gauntlet?"

The Reithrese shook his head. "You delay the inevita-
ble."

"Here, Mad Neal." Aarundel plucked a green glove
from his belt and tossed it to me. "So M'Lord Tashayul
does not disarm him in the first pass. A lesson quickly
learned is one quickly forgotten."

I caught the glove in my left hand and pulled it on. The
supple leather felt tight on my hand at first, but that eased.
My fingers had not filled their sheaths fully at first, yet by
the time I had worked my sword back into my hand, the
slack had vanished. The glove molded itself to my hand
and to the blade's grip.

I saluted the Elf, then struck an en garde position facing
the Reithrese warrior. If I had reach on him, I was think-
ing, it would be only an inch or two. In a duel to first
blood, the back of the arm is a likely target. A quick cut, a
riposte, or a coupe, and a steelkiss would bring blood.
With his armored sleeve in place, it would take more than a
lovetap to win me the fight, and I tried to plan a strategy
accordingly.

The Reithrese gave me no chance to plan. He came at
me hard, starting single-handed, then shifting around to
put both hands on the hilt of the blade. His first slash,
coming from right to left, mirrored the one he'd shown me

16    Michael A. Stackpole

when I knelt before him. I jumped back from it, but felt the
blade's sharp caress on my right shoulder.

A flesh wound only, it left a flap of skin flopping like an
epaulet on my shoulder. The blood it brought dripped off
my arm at the elbow, and the cry it summoned from his
men echoed through the courtyard. I felt the pain and lik-
ened it to the sting of a bee, then dismissed it because
Tashayul, having stung once, would sting again and again
until I lay dead.

Another fighter, saluted by the cheers of his subordi-
nates, might have backed off and accepted their applause.
Not Tashayul. He pressed me, sweeping Khiephnaft
around in a grand circle that brought it back down and
toward my head. I raised my sword and blocked his cut,
then sprang backward, tugging at my blade to free it. It
came after a second's delay that choreographed the rest of
our battle.

Khiephnaft had notched my blade. Roclawzi blade-
smiths have no equal on the face of Skin-en—which I can
say as the Dwarves dwell beneath the earth—but
Khiephnaft cut into it with the ease of a sharp knife hack-
ing cheese. We both came to the same realization, and I
saw what it meant to Tashayul reflected in his eyes. First he
would whittle my blade, then he would pare me down to
foolsplinters.

Double sure I was to die that day, my choices for the
rest of my life narrowed considerably. I could die short or
die long. The latter seemed the likelier choice, but it came
with pain, which brought it into question again. Of course,
I was thinking, I could share some pain with Tashayul and
tarnish his victory. After all, at sixteen summers I was not
the one fated to kill him, but I'd heard of no prophecy
concerning suffering on his part.

I attacked. Scuttling forward, I slashed low at his for-
ward leg and actually caught him in the ankle. My blade
scarred the leather of his boots, but did not get through to
his flesh. Snapping my wrist down and around, I disen-
gaged from his parry and came up in a circular slash that
reached toward his flat belly. He gave a step, then batted
my blade aside with his armored sleeve.

Once a Hero   17

His blade came up on a wrist-twist cut that had no
power, but still looked to slice me from navel to nose.
Ducking my left shoulder, I went down and over in a roll
that brought me halfway 'round him. By the time I came to
my feet and backhanded a slash at his legs, he'd spun and
parried me hard wide. That gnawed my blade again and
won him back the initiative in our fight.

With his back to the Elves, he drove hard at me. Twice
he came high right, forcing me to take his cuts on the forte
of my blade. Like a woodsman's ax on an old tree, his
sword sent chips flying from my blade. When he came in
the third time, I lunged in a stop-thrust that should have
spitted him, but he had anticipated me. He came up short
and brought Khiephnaft around in a sweeping cut that
trimmed two inches from the end of my sword.

I recall hearing that piece of steel clatter, ringing like a
bell, on the courtyard floor. I shifted my sword to my left
hand as I recovered, stamp-feinted with my right foot, then
advanced with my left and angled a thrust at his groin.
My thrust came slow and clumsy, a final act of despera-
tion.

TashayuPs parry came hard and quick. He trapped my
sword against the courtyard stones, then a final push with
bunched muscles shattered my worried blade. The strength
of the parry tore the hilt from my hand, smashing it down
against the stone. It bounced and cartwheeled away, back
behind him, toward the waiting Elves.

As I had intended from the moment I switched my grip,
I pivoted on my left foot and brought my right foot up and
around. The ball of my foot caught Tashayul on the left
temple. The blow twisted his head around and sent him
reeling in retreat. He tried to steady himself, but dropped
to one knee a half-dozen paces distant.

A heavy blow to the small of my back sent me to the
ground and all fours. I looked up and heard an arrow whiz
past my ear. It thunked into something behind me that
sighed and gurgled and thumped. Tashayul shook his head
and stood, turning to face the Elves behind him. Finndali
had already begun to dress Aarundel down, but the un-
daunted Elf nocked another arrow with cool dispatch.




18    Michael A. Stackpole

The fingers of my right hand closed on a flat piece of
steel maybe two inches square. I dropped my index finger
into a notch between a sharp burr and the old edge of my
sword, holding the fragment as I might a flat skipping
stone. I hauled it back, then whipped it forward, not caring
if I hit Reithrese or Elf, but hoping for the best.

My missile bit Tashayul over his spine. Small though it
was, it might well as been the full blade, because the lower
half of his body died as quick as dry wood in a hot fire. The
Reithrese reached back toward the wound, unbalancing
himself. He fell onto his spine, dropping Khiephnaft, and
just lay there. His peaceful legs contrasted with the fury on
his face and the angry thrashing of his fists.

"Arrest yourselves, or I shall arrest your lives,"
Aarundel commanded the Reithrese at my back. Without
waiting for orders from Finndali, I saw three more of the
Elves likewise bring their bows to full draw.

"Foul! Base treachery!" Tashayul shrieked from the
ground. "He used sorcery on me! I demand you slay him."

Still on my knees, I turned and freed a scimitar from the
Reithrese body behind me. "I'm thinking that if there was
treachery, it struck me full before it reached you, m'lord." I
looked up at Finndali. "Mark you that it was my blade
that blooded him. It was only a small piece of it, mind you,
but my blade and his blood. The fight is ended."

As much as Finndali might not have liked me, I could
see he had no loyalty to the Reithrese general lying on the
ground. Had I not deferred to Finndali, he might have
ordered me slain, but because I appealed to him as the
arbiter of the battle, he rose to the responsibility and the
superior position it assigned him. I waited humbly for his
judgment.

"The veracity of the Man's statement is beyond in-
quiry." Finndali shook his head as he looked down at
Tashayul. "In your generosity you gave him four years. He
shall have them."

I walked over to Tashayul and kicked Khiephnaft into
his reach. "Take good care of the blade, m'lord, for I'll be
coming for it after I kill you. Four years. When I reach my
twentieth summer."

Once a Hero   19

I started off toward the convent's stables, but Finndali
stopped me. "Roclawzi, how come you to be so bold, so
young?"

I frowned at the Elf as my stockpile of fear flowed into
anger. "I'm thinking, m'lord, that is a question that can
only be asked by a someone who has been watching life for
a long time. I'm living my life, I am, and it's a life that
needs bold living. At dawn I had four minutes to live it,
and now I have four years, so I'm not seeing any reason to
be rationing my boldness."

The Elf laughed silently, clearly amused by something I
had said. "Hrothdel, come and heal this youngling so more
boldness does not leak out of him."

An Elven magicker stepped from that company to help
me, but I shook my head. "Thanks, but I'll be seeing if one
of the nuns is a tailoress to take a stitch or two in my
wounds."

"But you will scar. There is no reason you should be
marred."

"Ah, but there is—without a scar, I might forget. I'm
not thinking I suffer hurts so lightly that I'll be wanting to
be unmindful of them." I tossed the Elven leader a salute.
"Come fifty years from now, I'm thinking the price you
will pay to get Cleaveheart from my hand is to listen to the
recounting of how I got this scar and that."

"If your life lasts that long, Neal, the recitation might
be diverting." The Elven lord raised his right hand to
shoulder height and waved one of his company forward.
"Aarundel, you will travel with this Neal. Tashayul has
given him four years, and I mean that he should have
them."

"I'll not be wanting an Elf dogging my steps." I pulled
Aarundel's glove off and tossed it to him. "Many thanks,
virsylvam, for the loan of your glove."

Aarundel deftly plucked it out of the air. "I will not be
a hound to your hare, but if you desire it, I can teach you
more of the Sylvan tongue and make the Reithrese remem-
ber the oath their leader made."

More the smile on Aarundel's face than the look of
disgust on Fmndah's decided me to accept his company.

20    Michael A. Stackpole

Truth be told, and not often enough it is, nights on the
road had been lonely, and having an Elf as a boon compan-
ion would be an adventure in and of itself, I also gathered,
from the whispers and glances of the other Elves, that more
of that company would have loathed the duty than have
welcomed it.

"And in return I can teach you how your blade and
your arrows can learn, eh?" I smiled and offered him my
hand. "Neal Roclawzi, honored to meet you."

"And I am Aarundel."

Much dust had settled on backtrails since that day,
leading us from Esquihir to Ispar and Barkol and on to the
Roclaws and all the way back to jammaq m just a handful
of years. Aarundel's presence had saved me more than
once from danger, and I'd done the same for him. More
important than that, though, was the friendship we built.
If the foundation laid down over the first five years were
any indication of durability of what would come after, all
the gods themselves would have to combine to rip the
two of us from the world, because no lesser power could
do it.

Rounding a ghoul-backed corner, we saw the tower. As
mausoleums go, I had to admit it was an impressive struc-
ture, if a bit ghastly garish for my tastes. The Reithrese
architects had indulged their passion for pillars and arches,
though all of the former looked like bones, and the latter
had skulls as keystones. The rest of the walls had been
carved to give the impression that they had been thatched
with ribs, with any gaps patched by boneknobs, odd shoul-
der blades, and eyeless skulls. Given the necroric design of
the building, the horrified expressions on the faces of the
gargoyles staring at it did not surprise me overmuch.

Aarundel straightened up to his full height and pulled
his scarf away from his mouth. "Seeing this mortuarium, I
do not begrudge any Reithrese termination."

"I'm thinking," I agreed as I tugged my scarf down,
"it's not the sort of place I'd be wanting to lay about, even
if for only a year."

The Elf pointed to a tortuous script carved into the
lintel above the massive doors. "Granting you dispute my
translation of TashayuFs supposed inaugural remarks, but

Once a Hero   21

that indicates that only the dead or faithful may pass into
this place at night."

"It's a good thing we are dead, then, I'm thinking, be-
cause my madness has not extended far enough for me to
be begging favors from the Cold Goddess." I slapped him
on the shoulder and ran across the roadway to the tower.
"Come on, it says we're welcome."

"Living or dead, I think the Reithrese would find little
to welcome about us."

Aarundel had a point. After Tashayul's death in the
Roclaws, the Reithrese focused their attention on complet-
ing the Imperial capital of Jarudm and did not expand the
Empire at all. But instead of thanking us for the chance to
consolidate their gains, they charged Tashayul's Skull-rid-
ers with the task of seeing to it that I was slain. For the
purpose of maintaining cordial relations with the Elves,
Aarundel's name was not on any death warrant, but the
Skull-riders were not terribly inclined to using methods
that would spare him while killing me.

Realizing we would not be shed of them—worshipers
of a death goddess being rather focused in their beliefs—on
this side of life, we lured a whole pack of them into the
Roclaws. With them in hot pursuit, in the midst of winter
and with a blizzard howling around them, we set a trap for
them. An avalanche—quite common in the Roclaws at that
time of year—wiped the lot of them out-
It was assumed the two of us had died as well. The
Reithrese failed to realize that the people of the Roclaws
had long before learned how to trigger avalanches and
avoid being trapped in them. With the aid of Roclawzi
nobles who hoped to use my status as a hero to their own
ends, Aarundel and I escaped a frozen death and rode from
the Roclaws free of hostile pursuit.

Newly dead—and thereby freed of normal, sane con-
cerns—we set out on our pilgrimage to the city of the dead.

Taking a leg up from a shinbone carved into the stone, I
peeked up into the death house through an arched win-
dow. Seeing no movement, I hooked a leg over the win-
dowsill, jamming my heel behind a skull or two, then
reached up and used a death's-head's open mouth for a

22    Michael A. Stackpole

handhold. Hauling myself into the tower and landing on
solid stone on the inside, I helped Aarundel in.

The inside of the tower stood in marked contrast to the
outside in terms of decoration—in a manner of speaking,
anyway. A fair not of columns and vaulted ceilings made
the place a forest of stone. We had come in on a walkway
that ran around three sides of the chamber. Steps came
down from the center of the wall opposite us to the sunken
floor of the chamber, and heading back up them would
doubtless take us to the tower's main corridor. In the east
wall I saw another narrower door that had a ramp leading
up to it. It stood open and led back into the center of the
complex. Enough light from the furnaces came through
that opening to provide us with flickering illumination
within the death chamber. Voices came to us through the
doorway, but I understood nothing, and Aarundel appar-
ently decided none of it warranted translation.

The chamber we were in had a frieze with selected
scenes from the history of the Reithrese race. It started with
their creation by the gods, then showed how they had
proved victorious over the forces of the ancient gods in the
long war that supplanted the parents with their children. It
continued with a number of other events that had signifi-
cance for the Reilhrese, then ended with a newly carved
piece nearly a full rod in length.
"Look at the frieze."

The Elf frowned. "Vulgar blasphemy. Look at how the
. . . artist has placed the Reithrese above Elves in cre-
ation."

"Not that, my friend, the last piece." I pointed to the
newly added section. "The banner there, lying under the
bulky figure's feet. That's the Green Viper banner of Duke
Harsian of Irtysh."

The Elf smiled. "Tashayul's last victory. That piece
looks movable, too."

"They just rent this space, not own it." I moved to the
right and threaded my way through the pillars. In the cen-
ter of the room, with its back to us, a huge stone throne
faced the newest piece of the frieze. "I'm thinking that ei-
ther we've stumbled onto the right place - . ."

". . . Or another of the generals who perished in the

Once a Hero   23

Rociaws is here." Aarundel followed in my footsteps,
though being an Elf, he moved more quietly and had
less trouble picking out the path through the half
light.

I came around the corner of the throne. "No, this is
Tashayul,"

I shivered as the light from outside flared and I got a
good look at what my old enemy had become. Seated in the
stone chair, a skeleton stared at us with empty eye sockets.
Wisps of his black hair decorated his bare shoulders and
rib cage, yet barely a scrap of flesh and no trace of muscle
remained on him. Only his )aw had dropped away from
the skeleton—it had landed on his lap. A few lost emer-
ald teeth decorated the bare stone seat between his
femurs.

I glanced at Aarundel. "This explains it, then."

"Remarkable."

Outlining his skeleton in bronze, a metal framework of
long and short, straight and curved pieces had been created
for him by Reithrese artisans. Metal posts ran from each
and every piece and attached themselves to his bones at the
points where metal bands had been fitted. His femurs each
had four attachment points, the shins and arm bones three,
^and each vertebra had one. A series of articulated joints
' connected the metal bones arid allowed them to ape normal
movements. It all ended at the back of his neck and, as
„ nearly as I could tell, the last five vertebrae had been en-
tirely replaced by metal substitutes.

"The metal lay close to his flesh except where it pierced
it." Aarundel pointed at Tashayul's skeletal forearm. "I
cannot imagine that did not hurt."

I nodded. "Constantly, I'd wager."

"Constantly, I would hope."

"Indeed." I smiled. "This explains a great deal."

"So it does."

After my escape from the monastery, the Reithrese con-
quests had slowed for a season. Aarundel and I both
thought having his spine cut had taken the fight out of
Tashayul, but then he was back. It was rumored that he
''was bigger and stronger. The two of us even scouted his
•: forces during a battle in Barkol, nearly two years before he

24    Michael A. Stackpole

reached the mountains, and again in Irtysh. In both places
he did seem much more massive than before. The two of us
knew his being up and able to fight could not be possible,
but the Reithrese were masters of vile magicks that might
bring dead limbs new life, so we could not really even guess
at what had healed him.

Aarundel dropped to his haunches and peered up
through the rib cage. "You will be unable to see it, Neal,
but a piece of your blade is still lodged in his spine. A blow
struck four years before caused his expiration when you
saw a score summers."

"Better it be believed I killed him in a duel than the real
story come out."

The Elf shook his head. "Roclawzi vanity. You killed
him."

"I did, but expediently, not heroically."

"Heroism is the judgment of ages."

"Then remember me kindly, my friend."

Aarundel nodded, then froze with his head cocked
toward the doorway. "If I have not misheard, your en-
trance will have the desired effect right about now."

Together, our faces bared, we mounted the ramp and
entered the larger chamber without attracting any notice.
Referring to the space as a chamber is only half-correct,
because it made up the central courtyard for the tower
complex. While at the center it was open to the sky, ex-
tending up for five levels from the ground concentric disks,
each smaller than the one above it, formed terraces over-
looking the courtyard.

At the courtyard's center, a huge stone ring surrounded
what I can only describe as a firewell. Incandescent gases
burned there in pulsed jets that filled the area with the heat
of a forge. The ghoulish architecture had been used in this
area with the terraces being bone-thatch, and the blocks
making up the ring looking like compacted skeletons,
where skull rested on knees with arms holding leg bones
tight to the chest.

Opposite us, across an audience of fifty Reithrese indi-
viduals, a High Priest of the Dark Goddess stood resplen-
dent in a cloth of gold robe hemmed to look as if his
garment were made from flame. The fiery glow behind him

Once a Hero   25

softened his thick outline and, no doubt, revealed us to
him, but either he did not notice us or took no concern
over our presence.

In his two hands he held aloft a scabbarded sword. I did
not understand his words, but I recognized the motions of
an auctioneer offering something for inspection and bids.
To me, after five years and twenty yards distant, the sword
looked different, but I knew the blade he presented was
Cleaveheart and that it would be mine before the night was
out.

Aarundel leaned toward me and kept his voice low.
"He says this is Khiephnaft and offers it for bid."

In the center of the crowd a Reithrese stood up. He
turned this way and that to nod at the others present, and
gave me a good look at his profile. Though more slender
than his brother, he had the same hungry look in his eyes.
His smile, from where I stood, appeared a sparkling black
gash on the lower end of his face, but that was because, as
a magicker, his teeth were diamonds. He pointed to the
sword and began to speak.

I stepped forward before Aarundel could grab me and
drop a hand over my mouth. "Begging your pardon,
Takrakor, but would you mind speaking in Mantongue?
My Reithrese is not that good, and I'll be bidding against
you."

Only the fire's roar answered my request. The Reithrese
and Reithressas present all turned to look at me, with their
jeweled teeth not nearly as pretty displayed in shock as
they were when flashed in a smile. Then, all of a sudden,
everyone spoke at once in a riot of angry, angular words.

Aarundel stepped up beside me and shouted in guttural
tones to the high priest. The priest considered the words,
while Reithrese gesticulated at me furiously. He then
looked down at the crowd and shouted one word that
brought silence. When his head came up, the priest looked
directly at me.

"The Elf has said you wish to invoke wirt kalma."

I nodded. "I understood that the determination of in-
heritance brought with it a truce, else I'd not have been
mad enough to come here."

"It does, but only for those who are meant to be here."

26    Michael A. Stackpole

The priest stared sternly at someone who grumbled from
the front row. "//" your suit for possession of the sword is
successful, then we will know you were meant to be here
and you will be granted wirt kalma."

The murderous stares of the others in the room told me
what would happen if I was not given possession of the
blade. "I understand."

"Very well. Takrakor, you were stating the reasons why
Khiephnaft should pass to you."

The Reithrese sorcerer nodded slowly. "My brother
was not alone in his desire to reestablish our empire. This
was a dream we had together, and together we realized it.
In the time it took me to devise and implement the plan
that put my brother back into the field, our efforts became
welded together as had our dreams. He meant the blade,
which is the catalyst for realizing our dream, to fall to me.
It is upon this that I base my suit."

The priest looked up at me. "You, Manchild, state your

case."

I smiled easily to hide the snake crawling around in my
belly. "I found the blade for Tashayul because without my
efforts, he never would have located it. I fought against the
blade, and it drank my blood. And 1 cut Tashayul down
and when Cleaveheart fell from his grasp, I returned it to
him. A year ago I killed Tashayul and would have taken the
blade then, as befitting the spoils of war, but his Skull-
riders—may their frozen bodies one day molder here—
brought him and my sword to Jammaq."

I pointed at the sword. "In other words, the blade
should be mine—is mine—and I'll be taking delivery of it

now."

Takrakor shook his head. "My brother did not intend
for you ever to gain possession of Khiephnaft. His thoughts
on this matter were quite clear."

"That's because he knew it was meant to be mine." I
glanced at Aarundel, and the Elf nodded back. "He knew
it, you know it, I know it, and the blade itself can prove it."

Takrakor's hands flexed. "More treachery from the

mountains?"

"Just proof." I looked at the priest. "Unsheath the
blade." I dropped my hand to the hilt of the scimitar I had

Once a Hero   17

borrowed from the natari I'd slain and took no comfort
from the fact that Aarundel did not see fit to bring his ax to
a guard position. "This better work, Aarundel."

"It will. The priest already knows it will."

The older Reithrese slowly stripped the scabbard from
Cleaveheart's blade. As the leather sheath flaccidly slipped
from the point, I saw a blade decidedly different from the
one I expected. Whereas Cleaveheart had originally been
the type of single-edged, serpentine blade the Reithrese up-
per crust favored, the blade had straightened. Now a
broadsword, I saw orange highlights skitter across two
razored edges, not just one. The hilt had changed slightly
as well, and as far away from it as I was, I knew it would
be balanced better than the broadsword I'd left back with
the natari bodies and our horses.

I didn't know how the sword had changed, but the
transformation had not been lost upon the assembled
Reithrese. "You see, when it was meant for a Reithrese
hand, it appeared as a Reithrese sword. Now it is meant for
the hand of Man." I walked down the short set of steps
and through an aisle to the dais upon which the high priest
stood. Heat pulsing out from the firewell tried to drive me
back, but I would not be denied. "My sword, if you
please."

His flesh ashen, he gave me the sword. I turned to leave
and found myself staring down the length of the blade
at Takrakor's pale throat. "But for the wirt kalma,
Takrakor . . ."

"One day, youngling, I will have that sword from your
hand and Mankind will scream in pain."

"Will you, now?" I winked at him and tipped the blade
toward the sky. "I'm to give this sword to an Elf in forty-
five years, so you'd best be quick in getting it while it is still
mine."

I stepped around him and rejoined Aarundel. "Before I
leave, for I've no desire to tax your wirt kalma, one last
thing: I also lay claim to this empire of yours. Give it to
whomever you want, but remember it's just a loan. Some-
day I'll collect it."

Aarundel and I walked back into the tower complex
and out through two cold bronze doors. Behind us angry

28    Michael A, Stackpole

voices rose and fell in time with the hot glow from within
the towers. "I gather wirt kaima is breaking down?"

"As with their magicks, 'chaotic' and 'elemental' can be
used to describe their interpersonal relationships. As much
as they would delight in your termination, they revel in
their internecine battles. Even now Takrakor is defending
his right to destroy you."

"With luck that argument will last for a decade or
two." I whipped Cleaveheart's bare blade up into a salute
and felt its cold forte pressed to the flesh of my brow. I
brought it down slowly after Aarundel acknowledged my
salute with a nod. "Tell me, my friend, why does Finndali

want this sword?"

"The Consilliarii have asked him to obtain it."
I bowed my head to him. "And why do the High Lords
of Cygestolia want this sword?"

I saw reflected in his dark eyes the war being waged
between his brain and his soul. He had his loyalties to me,
but they were of recent vintage and might well be unreli-
able. He also did as he had been commanded by the Consil-
liarii and their agent, Finndali. In all the time we had been
together, he had never once returned to his homeland for
new instructions. Whether he could or would answer my
question depended upon his assessment of me and, I sup-
posed, my perceived threat to him and Elvendom.

A curt nod prefaced his answer. ^Divisator is a blade of
fate. It has many prophecies concerning it. It earned its
name because of a black event in our history, proving the
veracity of one prediction made of it. It is because of that
prophecy being true that we have an interest in how the
sword is used in case the others also come true."

I frowned. "Such as."

His dark eyes narrowed. "The blade will win an em-
pire, but bring tragedy to the Man who wields it."

"Came true for Tashayul." I spun the blade in my hand.

"It was not necessarily meant to apply to Tashayul."
The Elf looked back at the Reithrese towers. "That proph-
ecy could possibly pertain to you, Neal. The Reithrese
soothsayers were working from that same prophecy, but
their translation may have been different from ours."

"I don't understand."

Once a Hero   29

Aarundel shrugged. "Words can be chameleons, and
translators can be magicians. 'Empire,' for example, could
be read as 'immortality' or as a confluence of both terms."

"That's not so bad." I spun the blade again. "Immortal-
ity or an empire or both? Certainly the fare for a hero, I'm
chinking."

"Yes, and more likely your get than any Reithrese. They
read the word 'man' as a synonym for 'individual.' We
believe it means Man."

That sobered me for a moment. "So the Consilliarii
want the blade to prevent the winning of a human em-
pire?"

"The infamy of the Eldsaga has not escaped us." The
Elf opened his hands slowly. "A war with humanity
sparked by a desire for vengeance is not something we wish
to see initiated."

My head came up. "But Finndali was willing to give the
Reithrese fifty years to destroy us."

"Ah, but Finndaii knew Tashayul was wrong about the
sword- After all, he did assign you a bodyguard to keep
you alive until you reached your twentieth summer, did he
not?"

Aarundel had a point, and it made me think of Finndali
as being far more shrewd than I had thought before. "Is
there any alternate interpretation to the word 'tragedy' in
this prophecy, then?"

Aarundel shook his head.

I shook off the chill cutting at ray spine. "Then I'll de-
clare it a tragedy if I'm not able to bore Finndali to death
with the tales of my scars in two score five years."

"It would be the height of tragedy indeed, my friend."

I threw him a wink. "And this 'immortality,' might it
not be in tale and song rather than in a physical sense?"

"It could be indeed."

"Then, I'm thinking, in deed I'll win it." I rounded the
corner of the alley in which we had hobbled our horses and
killed the natari. "Do you think we can ride from Reith
before they've stopped their squabbling?"

"Even if we were to carry our horses from here and not
vice versa, yes."

"Dead men do not carry horses."

30    Michael A. Stackpole

"Nor dead Elves."

I laughed and swung up onto my horse's back. "Now
that we have that settled, let us be away from this place.
It's time for us to come back from the dead and give bards
plenty of fodder for insuring we never die again."

Chapter 1

An Encounter on the
Way to Aurdon

Early Spring
A.R. 499
The Present

The bandits swarmed over (he broken caravan like hyenas
tearing at a carcass. Their howls of glee and yipped calls of
triumph echoed through the vale, filling a placid dusk with
the promise of a haunting night. Bright blades flashed red
—tinted more by the sun's dying red light than by the
blood they spilled—and left bodies scattered haphazardly
on the road. Reduced to black silhouettes as they passed in
front of a burning wagon, the bandits used their horses to
herd crying women and terrified children into the grassy
field on the downhill side of the road to Aurdon.

Exalted in their victory and masters of the chaos they
had created, the bandits did not notice the two riders
watching them from the crest of a hill above their kill. Even
if they had, Genevera suspected they would have dismissed
her and her companion. No one, assuming sanity and a
choice, would be foolish enough to do more than ride
away, and ride away swiftly at that. There were other ways
to commit suicide, and most all of them promised an easier

32    Michael A. Stackpole

passage into death than attacking a superior force of ban-
dits.

She looked at her companion, and Durriken smiled at

her. "Only a dozen, m'love." He took the reins in his
mouth and drew his two flashdrakes from the leather scab-
bard plate on his stomach. Holding one flashdrake in each
hand, he cocked the spark-talons with his thumbs, then
winked at her. The brown-haired man dug his heels into
his horse's ribs and rode down into the tiny valley.

Genevera reached out toward him for a final touch, but
her slender fingers just missed her lover's shoulder. Would
you have waited were it two dozen, R-ikf From their three
years together she knew, had she asked or urged caution
upon him he would have remained there with her, but she
also knew she could never have made such a request. She
accepted that as easily as she accepted the differences in
their races, and drank in the fearful excitement rippling
through her.

She followed him into the valley as quickly as she
could. Her horse, a roan gelding named Spirit, was not as
game as Rik's mountain pony in traversing a steep slope in
the twilight. When Spirit reached the level grassland that
ran from the road to the hills, his long strides regained
much of the lead the pony had built up. Even so, Durriken
reached the bandits first, giving Genevera time to begin her

spell.

Durriken thrust his right hand forward as if his flash-
drake were a lance. She saw a small spark as the talon fell,
then heard an earsplitting crack as the handcannon vom-
ited out a gout of flame that reached halfway to the nearest
bandit. Durriken jerked his head to the right, pulling the
pony back away from the caravan, then pointed his left
hand at another bandit and triggered the second flash-
drake.

As she had seen before, the flashdrakes worked as well

as a spell to shift the nature of the battle. The first bandit
Rik had shot slipped from the saddle and fell into the dust
without much drama. The sound of that first shot had a
strong effect and prompted half the bandit horses to shy,
rear, or run. Rik's second target sat astride one of the buck-
ing beasts, so when the lead ball from the flashdrake hit

Once a Hem   33

him, he catapulted into the air. Already dead, his limp
body did a slow backward somersault, then landed with a
thump on the rutted roadway.

Rik dropped his flashdrakes and drew the rapier from
his saddle scabbard. He brandished the blade as if he
meant to slay the rest of the bandits by himself; then he
pulled his pony away and invited pursuit. He moved off
diagonally, heading away from the road, and drawing four
of the bandits near the burning wagon as they came after
him.

Genevera smiled and concentrated for a second. She
thrust her left fist toward the wagon, cocked her hand
back, and opened it palm-first toward the fire. She felt a
tingle as a bluish spark leaped from her flesh; then the
burning pinprick streaked all but invisible through the au-
to its target. Yes, tt will hit!

The wagon exploded as everything that could bum,
that would eventually bum, ignited all at once. The raven-
ous fireball engulfed the four bandits, consuming their flesh
and swallowing their screams in its golden sphere. The
thunderous detonation dwarfed the flashdrake's noise, and
the hot wind from the hell it spawned had her long golden
hair snapping behind her like ship's canvas in a fiery gale.

Two other bandits fell from their saddles as their horses
reared up in panic. Her eyes adjusted quickly to the fire-
ball's brightness, allowing her to see shadow-wreathed ref-
ugees descend on the fallen men. Another bandit chose to
cross swords with Durriken while the last three galloped
out into the night, each heading for a different point on the
compass.

Durriken's pony stopped and turned quickly as the
small man tugged on the reins. As his right-handed foe
bore down on him, Rik shifted his rapier to his left hand
and nudged his pony back to the right and across the line
of the bandit's charge. He parried the bandit's awkward
cross-body saber slash, then took him through the chest
with a riposte.

The rapier came away wet as the bandit spurred his
horse out into the night. Durriken turned to watch him
run, but did not pursue him. He smiled as he trotted the
pony back toward the glowing circle of coals in the middle

34    Michael A. Stackpole

of the road. "Lungstuck. Needs to staunch the wound.
Someone spells it, he might live."

Genevera acknowledged his comment with a nod and
dismounted. She moved slowly and deliberately as she
slung the canteen over her shoulder and rummaged in her
saddlebags for her healing bag. "Were you injured, Rik?"

Swinging his right leg up and over his pony's head, he
kicked free of the left stirrup and slid to the ground. "Nay,
nary a scratch, love." He slapped his pony affectionately
on the neck. "Benison here got his tail toasted." Durriken
leaned forward, bringing his ear near the horse's mouth.
"He says if the Elven princess will give his master a kiss,
she will be forgiven."

"I will, will I?" She tucked a strand of golden hair be-
hind her pointed left ear. "Were his master a proper eques-
trian, Benison would not have been so close to the fire."

"Don't listen to her, Benison, she's a sorceress." The
slender man led his horse to the edge of the road and
dropped the reins. "Bewitch you, Gena will, as she has
me."

Gena caught Rik's smile and returned it, then flicked
her head toward the huddled shadows on the downslope.
Her violet eyes saw through the gathering darkness as if it
were but a thin fog. For all she knew of Rik being sharp-
eyed for a Man, she knew he would see only crouching
silhouettes. She envied him as he could not see the stark
terror in the caravan refugees' eyes, nor read the fatigue in
their drawn, pale faces.

Rik looked past her toward the figures and broadened
his smile. He stabbed the rapier into the ground, then
waved his right hand in a big welcoming gesture. "You're
safe now, people. Come up, come up. Nothing here to hurt
you. The bandits are running to the end of the world." He
punctuated his comment with a hearty laugh that brought
a smile to Gena's lips in spite of the grim tableau before
her.

In describing the motley collection of wagons scattered
along the road, "caravan" was an extravagant term to use.
Four wagons remained more or less intact. One had over-
turned going off the road, while the others stood scattered

Once a Hero   35

on the hard dirt surface. The oxen that had been pulling
them were dead, pinned to the ground by bandit lances.

The wagons themselves were all of different design and
crude manufacture. A pair were two-wheeled affairs with a
small bed ringed by crooked ribs of old wood. Sticks had
been woven between them ro provide some solidity around
the base, and torn canvas stretched taut across the heavy
load piled in them.

The third, like the one that Gena's spell had consumed,
had been built like a box and mounted on four wheels. It
required a pair of oxen to draw it and had wooden walls
and a flat roof, which even provided an overhang to ward
the driver from the sun. Ropes tied down a lumpy, canvas-
swathed load on the top of it, and a water barrel mounted
on the side bled moisture through a cracked stave.

The last one showed the most work and had four
wheels rimmed with iron. Its long, flat bed nearly over-
flowed with filled grain sacks. Above them, swinging like
gallows-rested highwaymen, crudely built cages containing
chickens and a pair of geese hung from a latticework of
stout poles.

Around each of the wagons, or lying bloody and
slumped over the dead oxen, Gena saw the bodies of the
men who fought and died defending the caravan. The
pitchforks and scythes they had used in their efforts lay
bloodless on the dusty roadway.

Gena looked over at Rik. "Farmers heading for
Aurdon. That grain should be in the ground, not heading
to market."

Rik crouched next to the first man he had shot. "And
these men should be burning m the Outlands."

"Haladina?"

Rik nodded and peeled the dead man's upper lip back.
Gena easily saw the filed front teeth and the dark dots on
the canines that meant each tooth had been drilled and
fitted with a small gemstone. "Haladina they are, or I'm a
Centisian noble out hunting marmosets."

"Haladina raiding this deeply into Centisia? Perhaps
now we have an answer to the question of why Count
Berengar Fisher sent for us." Gena turned away from the
body as Rik ripped open the tunic and used a dirk plucked

36    Michael A. Stackpole

from the bandit's belt to probe the hole his flashdrake had
made in the man's chest. She understood Durriken's fasci-
nation with his Dwarven weapons and the destruction they
caused. She even applauded the determined and methodical
way he experimented with them; but his willingness to
poke, prod, and even cut corpses left her uneasy.

It is a strange Man you have chosen to love, Gena. She
smiled unconsciously as she recalled fond moments of their
time together, then looked up as the first of the refugees
came up onto the roadway. Gena slowly squatted down
and focused her smile on a young girl clinging to her
mother's hand. The Elf held her arms open and nodded to
the child.

The little girl ran forward a few steps, her bare feet
slapping against the ground, then stopped and looked back
toward her mother. The woman did not look down at
her daughter, but continued to stare at where ashes and
embers smoked, hoping perhaps the wagon that had been
destroyed by magic would magically reappear. The dark-
haired little girl ran toward Gena again, slowing and stop-
ping shyly before she got within arm's reach.

"Hello," Gena whispered in a gentle tone. "I am Gena.
What is your name?"

The little girl folded her arms and looked down. She
smiled, but refused to look up or speak. Then, quick as a
bird on the wing, her head tipped up and her brown-eyed
gaze flicked over Gena's face seconds before the girl hid her
face behind her hands. She mumbled something, and Gena
caught enough of it to puzzle out what had been said.

"Andra? Is your name Andra?"

Peering out from between splayed fingers, the girl nod-
ded silently.

"I am pleased to meet you, Andra." Gena held her left
hand out, and the child took it- Slowly straightening up,
the Elf lifted the girl up in her arms and perched Andra on
her left hip. The little girl giggled, making the first happy
sound in the vale for what, Gena would have guessed, had
seemed like a very long time to the refugees.

As they came in, Gena saw them segregate themselves.
The male children, the eldest standing as tall as Durriken
but appearing barely past puberty, and the youngest no

Once a Hero   37

more than a year older than Andra, walked over toward
Durriken. They approached him cautiously, clearly curious
about what he was doing and likely a bit afraid of him
because of his fiashdrakes. As they crowded around him,
he looked up and smiled, then stood and nodded at them.

"Greetings, lads." He flicked the borrowed dirk down,
sticking it quivering into the ground near the bandit's head.
The boys jumped back startled, then stared at the dirk and
the man who had so casually flung it down. "Are any of
you hurt?"

Most remained quiet, but the oldest nodded his head.
He turned, and Durriken reached up, taking the boy's head
in both his hands. He spread apart blood-matted hair
above the boy's left ear. "Evil gash that, but closing." Rik
glanced at Gena and shook his head, then released the boy
and parted his own hair to reveal a small crescent-shaped
scar. "I've one like it, but mine's not a relic of surviving a
Haladin raid."

Andra's mother came away from the glowing coals that
had been her wagon and curtsied before Genevera. "That is
my daughter, M'Lady Sylvanii. I will take her so she will
not offend you."

Gena shook her head and tickled the child beneath her
dirty chin. "Your child is lovely and could not offend me. I
thank you for letting me enjoy her."

Gena chose her words carefully and fought to keep her
Woe light. The woman's comment to her had been full of
fear, and her careful pronunciation of the Elven name for
themselves told Gena that the woman only knew of Elves
. through the old ta|gs. She was used enough to being con-
^aidered exotic in f^, larger cities, but the reverent terror
,. displayed by the ^n of the countryside sent a shiver run-
fning down her spine.

"Goodwife, are you injured?" Gena held Andra out to
her, and the woman hugged her child close.

The woman shook her head and swiped at tears. "No,
m'lady, 1 am not hurt in blood or bone, but . . ." She
looked at where her wagon had stood. "Our wagon is
gone, my husband is dead. . . ."

Gena grabbed ahold of the woman before she could fall
down. She lowered her to the ground and freed Andra

38    Michael A Stackpole

from her arms. "Here, have some water. I am Gena, my
friend is Durriken." Gena unstoppered the canteen and let
the woman drink long and deep- "How is it that you are
here? Where did you come from?"

The woman lowered the canteen, and a droplet of wa-
ter lingered on the lower edge of her lip. "We are all from
Beech Hollow. It is ... it was a small village in the
mountains on the border with Kaudia. You would not have
heard of it, but it was a good place until people started
coming through. They told us of raiders, Haladin raiders.
We decided to come north to Aurdon. We wanted to be
safe."

Gena sat back on her haunches. "Durriken and I are
bound for Aurdon. It is not far, barely a day's ride."

The woman shook her head. "We can never make it.
Our oxen are dead, our menfolk are dead. I have nothing
now. . . ." Her lower lip trembled, and the water droplet
washed a clean line down her dust-coated chin. She drew
her knees up to her chest and lowered her face onto them;

then her shoulders began to heave as she wept silently.

Gena left her there and moved on to the other groups of
people at the other wagons. She checked the unmoving
men and boys for any signs of life, but found none. Stories
told of how the Hatadina pressed a dirk into the hands of
every male child at birth. Haladin men were the product of
years of warnng against each other. Killing was their liveli-
hood, and were the dead men here to be taken as a sample
of their work, they knew their trade well.

Once she had determined she could do nothing for the
men, she turned her attention to the women and children.
Aside from being badly frightened and road weary, most of
the children appeared healthy, if not a little too skinny for
their height. The women did their best to hold their terror
and sadness in. They wanted to mourn their fallen hus-
bands, fathers, and sons, but they seemed to know that to
lose control would lead to even more disaster-

Gena agreed with the thought expressed by a number of
the women that they had been spared the sword or lance
because the Haladina were planning to take them back and
sell them into the seraglios of the Wastelands. She had her
doubts about that, however, as only two of the women—

Once a Hem   39

girls, really—were soft and pretty enough for that son of
' life. The other women looked tired and well-worn. Even
'• allowing for her cultural bias, Gena felt certain that tne
women had been saved because they bad not offered much
in the way of resistance to the raiders.

Despite the urgency of their reaching Aurdon, Gena
and Durriken both agreed in a whispered consultation chat
they could not leave the farmers alone. One Haladin band
ought have been driven off, but the possibility that another
might be nearby and try to finish the »ob could not be
dismissed. Moreover, they both knew that people who had
been raised in a closed and close community like a farming
village were utterly out of their element on the road in the
Cenrisian heartland.

"What we need is organization." Rik smiled and gave
Gena a quick kiss. "I think we can take some steps toward
that at this very moment."

Durriken whistled, and his pony trotted over to him.
He boosted the oldest boy into the saddle and pointed out
a circular route. "Take Benison out and around so you
come up on the bandits' strays from tc^sarth there. Ap-
proach them slowly, and they'll trot in^^ard us. Let the
pony do all the work, he knows how it is done."

As the pony trudged off, Durriken pointed to the rest of
the boys. "Quick, now, gather up some firewood. Make a
big pile right over here." Walking away from them, he dug
the heel of his boot into the ground and scuffed out a cross.

**Right here, now. Those what bring the most can help me
feed my flashdrakes."

Durriken stooped and recovered the weapons from

- where he had dropped them. Blowing dust from them, he
\ inserted each into the holding straps and crossed to where
^Gena crouched near Andra's mother. Kneeling at the sob-
bing woman's feet, he settled his hands on hers. "Have no
tear, goodwife, we will get you to Aurdon." He stood as
the other refugees began to drift in toward the reddish
glow and warmth of the burned wagon. "All we need is a
plan, but that is why I am here."

Gena watched Durriken as he began to pace back and
forth. She knew him well enough to know he was putting
on an act, assuming a role of brave importance and leader-

40    Michael A. Stackpole

ship—a role he hated when he saw it in others. He was a
curious man, in that, when needed, he would slip into roles
that he disdained. He became what he had to become, to
do what had to be done.

"Now we have one bold lad out there on my pony—is
he your son?" Durriken gave a plump woman a smile when
she glanced off at the boy on the pony. "A fine youth. He
will bring the bandits' horses back here. That will give us

four."

Another woman, with twin daughters clutching her

thighs through thick homespun skirts, shook her head.
"Four horses will not pull our wagons to Aurdon."

"No, they won't, my good woman." Durriken paced
over near the Haladin body he had studied earlier. As he
turned back to face the women, he raised his left hand and
pointed off behind them into the night. "Is that a light? Are
the Aurdon Rangers this far out?"

When everyone turned to look back into the night, Dur-
riken brought his heel down on the raider's mouth in a
quick, sharp blow. He squatted down, using his crouched
body to shield the corpse's ruined face from the women
and shrugged as they all looked back at him. "It was noth-
ing, a twinkling star mayhap."

He pried the raider's broken mouth open with his right
hand and worked one of the canine teeth loose. "Now, as
you were thinking, four horses are not enough to get your
wagons to Aurdon. Luckily for you, these Haladina like to
decorate themselves." He stood and held up a tooth set
with a small sapphire. "Unless oxflesh is valued beyond
good conscience and fair reason in Aurdon, a bandit smile
will buy you a whole herd."

In silent agreement Genevera and Durriken split the
work that needed to be done between benign and grim.
Durriken dragged the bandit bodies off and harvested their
valuables in the evening darkness. Gena encouraged the
women to set their daughters to preparing food while she
helped wives and mothers clean their dead and dress them
for burial. They laid them out in the grassland beside the
road, each family in turn bidding a tearful and private fare-
well to their loved ones.

. With a borrowed shovel on his shoulder, Durriken

Once a Hero   41

looked at the eight bodies and shook his head. "I have been
glad, over these three years with you, to know your school-
ing in magick came in the areas of combat and healing- I
have benefited from both, but there are times I could wish
for your having other knowledge."

Gena shook her head- "If I knew the earth magicks, I
would tear a hole open for you."

Rik caressed her right arm. "Not that, love. I was
thinking necromancy. It would be a just thing for the
Haladina to dig the graves for their victims."

"That it would." She glanced back beyond Durriken,
toward the fire on the road and the people grouped around
it. She saw one silhouette standing away |18'••n the others.
"The boy who rode your pony . . ."   ^^

"Keif."                            te

"Yes, Keif. He is looking this way. I think, if you ask,
he will help you dig graves."

Durriken nodded. "I know. He's a brave lad. I will take
him with me for the ride to Aurdon, but I will not have him
dig." He gave Gena the half smile that she knew covered a
hurt within him. "No boy should have to dig his own fa-
ther's grave. I'll spare him."

She reached out and squeezed his shoulder. "It will be a
night's work. I do not think many will be sleeping, but it
might help . . ."

Rik's smile broadened. "Yes, love, I will come to the fire
from time to time to let them know I am still here." He
winked at her. "You should tell them one of your stories,
one that will banish the terrors. Seems to me, last night,
you told me about a battle waged against the Haladina by
that hero . . ."

"Neal." The hair on her arms rose as she remembered
the story, and her smile blossomed as she remembered how
the night was spent after its telling. "Neal Custos Sylvanii."

"Aye, the Dun Wolf." He jerked his head at the refu-
gees. "I doubt they know much about him—before I met
you, I thought of him as the tragic hero of some dirges—
but he's hero enough the way you tell things to keep the
night frights away."

Gena bent down and kissed Durriken lightly on the
lips. "Thank you, Rik, for doing all you have."

42    Michael A. Stackfmie

"I have the easy part. Killing and burying take no ef-
fort. The dead don't weep." He smiled at her and walked
away from the fire. "You have to heal the living. Fortune
smiles on them, because you are quite skilled in that way."

Gena returned to the fire and gratefully drank in its
warmth. She gently refused a wooden bowl of steaming
gruel, then looked up when she saw Keif herring a piece of
wood from the pile that had been collected and testing it
for weight. The other little boys looked ready to follow his

example.

She smiled. "That is a good piece. Keif, it will bum

well."

The boy shook his head. "No, m'lady, I want it in case

they return."

"The Haladina?" Gena forced a laugh that caught ev-
eryone's attention. "They will not be back."

A woman's head came up. "How can you say that?"

Gena sat down, pulling her crossed ankles in. "The
Haladina are a fearsome yet fearful people. You know, of
course, that they had not raided this far north in many,
many years—centuries, in fact. Do you know why?"

Keif shook his head, as did others in the circle of the

firelight.

Gena nodded and raised her voice enough to cover the
cough of spade turning earth. "Five centuries ago, when
the Red Tiger fought to rid Centisia of the Reithrese armies
and their Haladin mercenaries, he had a hero leading a
company of mercenaries. That hero was Nea! Elfward, the
Dun Wolf." She pointed back up into the dark hills. "Very
near here it was that Neal destroyed a Haladin army and
scattered them. He won through an ambush and even
saved Aurdon itself from destruction. That is a tale for a
night like this, and no Haladina will brave its telling to
harm us. . . ."

Chapter 2

An Encounter on the
Way to Annum

_X

Late Summer

Reign of the Red Tiger Year 1

Five Centuries Ago

My Thirty-fifth Year

1 was thinking, as I flew through the air, that being —
horsed by an ambush was not a good thing. The wisdom of
it ranked with my thinking that Haladin plainsmen would
have no use for the thick-forested hills of Centisia. Clearly
they did, the main use being to set ambushes for fog-
brained warriors riding hell-bent through the night.

un-

My weighing more than a bird and having neither wing
nor feather to aid me meant my nocturnal flight ended in a
tooth-rattling crash. The ground did its best to swap my
spine for my breastbone, but I heard nothing snap and only
a few things creak. The gods, taking perverse delight in
complicating the lives of mortals, let me live with the pain
and embarrassment instead of killing me outright. Being
ever so appreciative of their efforts on my behalf, I let the
gods carry my somersault into a poor tree and use my ar-
mored bulk to punish it for whatever offense it had given
them.

44    Michael A. Stackpole

My hauberk lost no rings in its war with the tree, but it
graciously passed all the impact right on to me through my
padded jerkin. Growling out an oath against the sharp stab
in my ribs, I pulled in my feet, rolled back onto my
haunches and stood. It surprised me that I managed it, and
threw a quick scare in the Haladina coming out of the trees
to dispatch me with a little finger-knife. The fact that I
towered over him made him reconsider and step back.

I used the time it took him to draw his scimitar to raise
my fingers to my mouth and blast out .a whistle. I had been
riding point, albeit too fast for being tired and night-blind,
so I felt a duty to warn my friends of the ambush. I had no
quarrel with my stupidity being the death of me, but I
wanted a place in Fool's Hell, not False-Friend's Perdition.

The Haladin warrior came in at me with the fearless
abandon I'd seen in his people throughout the war with
their masters, the Reithrese. Curved sword slashing in at
hip height, he clearly expected to cut me quick, then
scarper off to help his allies kill my companions.

His blade hit solid and would have cut clean through
my hauberk, excepting my mail had been pounded out of
ore by Roclawzi craftsmen who prided themselves on do-
ing proper work. The scimitar skittered across my belly
with a raspy hiss like a snake slithering across a bed of gold
coins. I felt the blow and even grunted as it doubled the
aching in my ribs, but I didn't feel the need to die or even
let my knees kiss the ground because of it.

The Hatadina's smile slacked as I lunged forward. He
tried a backhanded stroke at me, but 1 had already moved
inside his range. I let his right forearm smack into my right
flank, then I slammed my right hand into his throat. He
gurgled and, spittle necked his lips while his face turned
dark; then he went over backward.

Coming down, his head met my left knee. I felt nothing
through the knee-cop I wore, but the impact jarred him
hard enough that his little steel helmet bounced off into the
night. Soundlessly, his body went slack. I dropped his
body, then took a step back and ground my right heel
down onto his wrist, both to free the sword and to see if he
was truly unconscious or feigning it.

He was out, and just as well, as his shattered wrist

Once a Hero   45

would have hurt him far worse than my bruised ribs did
me. I scooped up his scimitar and started running back up
the hill. Even though I could not see well in the dark, the
sound of battle provided me ail the guidance I needed tyf
tell where I was going,                              ig.t

The tripline the Haladina had used to bring my hor^
down had been placed on a good little downhill run. Had
we all been running tight-packed, they would have had the
lot of us all in a tangle. Their man at the line would have
cut it, then their horsemen would have fallen on us and we
would have been able to offer little in the way of a fight.
The slaughter wouldn't have been worth a bard's chorus,
much less a song all for itself.

Because I had been running the point a good hundred
yards in front of my squad, my whistle gave them time to
slow and time to stop before they fell to the same trick that
got me- The Haladina, having learned to cut with a knife
before they cut their teeth, decided to take a run at my
people anyway, to see what they would see.

What they would see was blood and lots of it.

Cresting on foot the hill I'd descended in air, I hefted
the Haladin scimitar. It wasn't my Cleaveheart, but it was
a hard ribbon of war-steel. I'd seen more than enough men
and boys who hadn't survived opening with a Haladin
blade to denigrate it. The scimitar's broad sweep robbed
me of a lunge, but fighting cavalry from foot meant the
finer points of dueling were denied me in any event.

The Haladin horsemen had descended on my men
thicker than wing-maggots on meat. I had been traveling
with a small, handpicked squad that included a number of
my officers. Though they were battle-hardened veterans all,
being caught in an ambush still presented problems. Night-
time and fatigue likewise contributed to the confusion that
greeted me at the top of the hill.

The ambush, which any leader would have seen as a
nightmare, split the night with the ringing of steel on steel
and the cries and shouts of men angry, desperate, and dy-
ing. Horses screamed and hooves pounded the ground,
sending tremors up through the bottoms of my feet. The
swirling martial maelstrom made it impossible for me to
judge which side was getting the belter of the other.

46    Michael A. Stackpole

At my whistle Aarundel had immediately assumed com-
mand of the Pack. There were those who, mindful of the
Eldsaga, would have mistrusted an Elf, but not my war-
riors. They'd too many times seen him as I did now, giving
his Dwarf-made war ax a twist and jerk to free it from a
Haladin corpse. Looking at him, none of us doubted the
truth of the Eldsaga, and all were glad he fought with us
rather than against us,

Being stupid enough to fall to an ambush infuriated me,
and I wanted to vent my anger on the Haladina. I howled
out my war cry and settled both hands around the scimi-      <'.-':

tar's hilt. The wolfish call brought a Haladina around, and      '^
he drove at me. With his scimitar pulled back for a run-      ^'
ning-slash, he'd already figured where he'd weave my hair      .':. ;

into his scalp-coat,                                                .r;

I raised the scimitar to my high left guard and blocked      '
the slash all but hilt to hilt. The stout blow sent a shiver      ^;

through my arms, but the blade stayed locked in my grip.      i ^
Turning toward him as he rode past, I cut down with the
scimitar. He had already begun to pull his arm back for
another slash, so had no way to parry when I chopped into
and through his knee.

I ducked beneath his weak return slash while his scream
drowned out all but the last of AarundePs shouted warn-
ing. I looked up to see another Haladina bearing down on
me- He had a lance centered on my chest. Off balance as I
was, I could have barely managed a weak parry, and my
mail wouldn't stop a horse-lance.

From my right, moving like a scrap of shadow given life
by a nightmare godling, the Dreel crossed from forest to
horseman in an eye blink. A humanoid mountain of muscle
and fury, Shijef hit the gelding on its shoulder with one
paw, and its haunch with .the other. The Dreel's charge
lifted the horse from its hooves, and still driving his legs,
Shijef slammed rider and beast into a thick pine on the

road's far side.

Bones broke and metal groaned. A quick slash with the
left paw's talons opened the horse's neck, ending its
screams and almost severing the head. The rider likewise
screamed, though more from terror than pain, and earned
the Dreel's quick attention. Shijef reached up and closed his

Once a Hero   47

right paw over the raider's head. I turned away before he
could do it, but Shijef took great delight in discarding the
Haladin head so it bounced across my line of sight.

The rest or the band, made up of all my captains save
Drogo, and two each of their own company's men, fed the
forest blood, bone, and meat. It worked out to be not so
much a battle as a slaughter, given that the ambush was
not that much of a surprise and that the forest eliminated
the Haladina ability to ride fast and make quick attacks.
With our superior armor and heavier weapons, a close-in
fight left them nearer to us, and to the goddess the
Reithrese revered, than they had wanted.

After they broke and the half dozen that escaped us
rode away, it also appeared that these Haladina had been
hiding in the hills since before the Haladin defeat on the
Central Plains. Aarunde! and Senan found their camp back
up in the hills and reported they had nothing in the way of
supplies. The Elf suggested and I agreed that they had
probably looked to harvest us for our provisions, not real-
izing until too late we were a fruit with a thick husk and
' sharp thorns.

Another long and loud whistle brought my horse back
to me. Blackstar got his name because or the black blaze on
his white face. Aside from face and white stockings, the
monstrous beast is the color of midnight all over, and his
disposition is not much lighter. He eyed me with a cold
anger for having ridden him into a tripline, but he did not
seem hurt by the mishap. It took a low grow! from the
Dreel to remind him that worse fates were possible before
he allowed me to remount him.

Blackstar, as warhorses go, did not weigh as much as
some of those my company rode, but he made up in
Strength and cunning what he lacked in bulk. The fact that
he had been trained by Elven masters still made him a bit
skittish of me, but we had reached an accommodation over
the two years he had been mine. If he pleased me, I would
keep the Dreel away from him.

Senan led our squad back to the Haladin camp, which
had good water and a meadow where our horses could
crop some grass. As the men made up camp and started
boiling dried meat, millet, and wild onions into something

48    Michael A. Stackfmie

edible, Aanmdel and I inspected the detritus of the Haladin
camp.

I poked some very dirty, lice-ridden rags with a stick.
"They had been here for a long time, no doubt about it.
They must have been deserters. I know the Haladina do
not hold with cowardice, but they would have welcomed
anyone back before the battle on the central plains."

"I cannot dispute that assessment, but I wonder if these
were not more than ordinary bngands." The Elf concen-
trated for a moment, bringing his dark brows together as
he did so. "I seem to recall having heard a rumor about one
cavalry company having run off with a payroll for the rest
of the mercenaries. This could have been them."

I frowned as I tried to remember details of that story.
"That was DijjaFs unit wasn't it? I'm thinking I'm not
missing their departure. If this was them, they fell on very
hard times."

"Traitors are seldom welcome anywhere, and the
Haladina have their tradition of death by Eight Cuts for
traitors."

"True enough." I nodded. "In DiJJal's case Fd not mind
seeing him roped to his saddle with his own entrails, but
that's the only time I've not thought Eight Cuts extreme.
Your point about traitors is well-taken, for the Reithrese
would not welcome them back, and none of the Man-
towns we've liberated would invite them in."

Aarundel shook his head. "Save, perhaps, Aurium.
Market centers always have a need for gold and jewels."

"I suppose we will find that out, won't we?"

The whole of the Man-war against the Reithrese had
been full of odd alliances, great heroics, and brilliant strate-
gies on the part of the Red Tiger. A couple of years after
Tashayul's death he led a slave revolt in south Centisia and
took his men into the Kaudian mountains, where they be-
came a bandit band that harried the southern trade routes.
The first I heard of him, in fact, came when a bard added a
verse to a song about me suggesting I'd be heading off to
end the Bandit's career.

I had no such intention because I was spending most of
my time with Aarundel, Drogo, and a few others who
formed the core of the Steel Pack riding through the border

Once a Hero   49

provinces of Tashayul's empire causing trouble for the
Reithrese. In Irtysh I picked up the Dreel—embarrassing
Duke Sture, Harsian's son and heir, in the process. During
that time I heard about how the Red Tiger was becoming
bolder in his war with the Reithrese, but I stayed away
because Sture created his Exile Legion and rode off to help
the Red Tiger.

Of course, with Sture forming up his own military unit,
I felt a need to do the same. The Steel Pack was bom on my
twenty-seventh birthday, and a year later the Red Tiger
sent an envoy to me to ask us to join his war of liberation. I
took a vote among the men, and we'd fought for the Red
Tiger for the last seven years.

The Red Tiger showed a keen sense of strategy in plan-
ning out his war. Sture, who constantly agitated for the
liberation of Irtysh, did not understand that Centisia and
Ispar were the keys to destroying the Reithrese Empire. The
Red Tiger did, and worked hard to deprive the Reithrese of
their two richest provinces, because in doing so he crippled
them and provided himself with the resources he needed to
defeat them.

This year we had finally become strong enough to fend
off all the assaults on the mountain freestate we had cre-
ated, and ventured forth into Centisia. The strategy was to
split Centisia in half and trim off the southern end of it.
Toward that end we sent Sture's Legion driving down
toward Polston, then had it turn north at the Aur River
while the Red Tiger and I, with the main body of our
troops, punched straight east across the Central Plains.

Polston revolted against the Reithrese, and they re-
sponded by sending Haladin units to lay siege to the city.
Their cavalry units got there quickly on the eastern side
of the river, missing Sture's Legion. The Reithrese and
Haladin reinforcements, moving slowly with their supply
trains and siege engines, hit Sture head-on and stopped.
Then we slammed into them from the west and broke
them.

The Red Tiger, having crushed the reinforcements for
the southern Centisian garrison force, had sent on three
quarters of his army under Sture to lift the Haladin siege of
Polston. Sture accepted the assignment despite its taking

50    Michael A. Stackpole

his troops further from Irtysh. As much of a patriot as
Sture was, he did tend to enjoy his time in cities, and Pol-
ston had all sorts of things to offer a man with such broad
tastes as our Sture.

The Steel Pack had been sent north along the Aur River
toward the little town of Aurium. The town itself was less
important than its location, which was at the confluence of
the two rivers that made the Aur. It was possible that the
Reithrese might ship Imperial troops from Ispar down the
river to attack Polston, and if they were going to do that,
the Red Tiger wanted us in Aurium to slow them down. He
himself was bringing the remainder of his army up in our
wake, so if we could not hold the Reithrese at Aurium, he
would stop them elsewhere along the river.

Our primary fear had been—and still was, for that mat-
ter—that part of the Haladin force operating in the Central
Plains had retreated north and occupied Aurium. If they
had done that, our job would be very complicated. By pull-
ing a scouting detail from the Steel Pack and running along
ahead with it, we hoped to be able to spot signs of Haladin
movement. Stili two days* ride out from Aurium, the am-
bush was the only hostile force we had run into.

I worked my left arm around and grimaced at the ache
in my ribs. Hunched down in the shadows, Shijef watched
me, his mouth open in a canine grin. He clearly took plea-
sure in the fact that I hurt, but in him I sensed some pride
that the man who had bested him and had become his
master had proven very difficult to kilt. I smiled under-
standing at him, which disgusted him, and he shambled off
into the darkness.

"Aarundel, if the Haladina get to Aurium first, do you
think they will sack the town?"

"Their behavior will depend on a number of factors. I
largely believe their conduct will be determined by whether
or not they know you are coming after them."

"What difference will that make?"

The Elf smiled. "Were the Haladina raiding at their lei-
sure, they would raze the town after looting."

"Raze it?" I frowned. "It's a trading town. Why destroy
it when you can raid it over and over again? The Haladina
are shrewd, they'll see the wisdom in that."

Once a Hero   51

"They are quite intelligent, Neal, of that there is no
question. The trick of it is this, though—if you are not
following them, they will destroy it as a sign of contempt
for the Red Tiger and for you."

"And if they know we're coming."

"You said it yourself, it's a trading town." Aarundel
shrugged easily and fished a whetstone from a belt-pouch
so he could apply it to the blade of his ax. "The Haladina
will hold the town so they'll have something for which
you'll be willing to trade."

X

I Chapter 3

Received by the Lords
ofAurdon

x

Early Spring
A.R. 499
The Present

The little girl's scream brought Gena running through the
camp. Darting around small family knots gathered for the
noontime meal, she saw Andra standing in the grasses by
the edge of the road. Picked wildflowers lay scattered
around the screaming child, and blood dripped from twin
puncture wounds on her right wrist.

Gena scooped the child up and saw a black serpentine
shape slipping off through green grass. She'd not caught
enough of a glimpse of the snake to be able to identify it,
but the swelling around the wounds already told her it was
likely venomous. She carried Andra to the roadway and lay
her down just as the girl's mother came running.

"My baby, my baby . . ."

The woman teetered on the brink of hysterics, and
Gena knew she could not let the woman break down. Hav-
ing Andra's mother wailing and crying in her ear would
shatter Gena's concentration and distract her so she could
not weave the spells that could save the girl. Knowing she

Once a Hero   53

had to act quickly, she put an edge into her voice and
turned on the woman. "I need you to fetch me bandages,
clean bandages, now!"

Her command sent Andra's mother scurrying off, so
Gena turned her attention to her patient. The child
thrashed on the ground and cried loudly, and both things
threatened to disrupt Gena's concentration as much as the
mother had. Knowing she would get no useful information
from the girl, Gena brushed her fingers over Andra's
clammy forehead, casting a spell that dropped the child
into a temporary sleep.

Taking Andra's arm, she triggered a simple diagnostic
spell. Aside from reporting puncture trauma to the mus-
cles, the spell provided Gena with an impression of corrup-
. tion spreading through the area. She knew that came from
the necrotic processes started by the venom, and acted fast
to limit and heal the damage.

Instead of wasting energy on a spell that would cut off
blood flow from the arm to the rest of Andra's body, Gena
picked a round stone from the roadway and forced it up
into Andra's armpit. She enlisted one of the girls gawking
down at her to hold the stone tight against Andra's arm,
knowing the stone would compress the arteries and veins,
temporarily isolating the arm from blood flow.

Had she known exactly what type of snake had bitten
Andra, Gena could have chosen a spell specifically created
to deal with that snake's bite. Instead she had to rely on
a spell designed to counteract most hemotoxic venoms.
Pressing her palms against the wound, she invoked the
spell, and warmth passed, from her hands to Andra's arm.

The diagnostic spell reported the immediate neutraliza-
tion of the venom, bringing a smile to Gena's face. "Good,
good. You can drop the rock now." She looked up at the
people who had gathered around. "She'll live, and with a
bit more work here, she'll be fine."

Repairing the damage to Andra's arm should not be
difficult at all. Healing spells worked to speed up the
body's normal healing processes. With a child Andra's age,
the magick had no trouble augmenting her healing rate,
and when Gena finally pulled her hands away from the

54    Michael A. Stackpole

snake bite, smeared blood gave the only clue that Andra
had been bitten.

Gena stood slowly and fought off a wave of dizziness.
Though the spells had been simple, they had taken some-
thing out of her. After a moment or two the dizziness
passed, and Gena wiped her hands off with one of the rags
the girl's mother had started to tear into bandages.

As Gena moved away from the crowd—leaving Andra
in her mother's care—one of the boys Durriken had
charged with guard duty came running over to her. "You
should see this, m'lady." He jumped up and pointed north-
east past one of the wagons.

Walking around the wagons, Genevera saw distant dun
hints of the dust cloud long before she heard trumpets or
caught the scarlet pennants snapping in the breeze. Unable
to identify them at first, she muttered a prayer in hopes
they were not Haladina. She had the spells and experience
necessary to raise a defense of the camp, but after treating
Andra she needed rest before she could be at her best in
combat.

The approach to the camp took the riders up a slight
incline, which she knew would take the edge off a charge.
That hardly mattered, though, as Haladina seldom fought
in unison and would attack from many points at once. The
grasslands, baked golden-brown by the sun, offered her
magicks fodder for a fire, but it would rage out of control
and kill her and the people she meant to save as well as
their tormentors. Her defense would have to be more care-
ful, making it that much tougher on her, and she wasn't
certain she was fully up to the task.

Shenan, Keif's younger brother, stood beside her, shirt-
ing throwing stones from left hand to right. "What do you
mark them to be, m'lady?"

Gena glanced down at the towheaded boy beside her.
"How much can you see?"

"Cloud, all whispylike. Has to be riders." The boy low-
ered his voice- "If Neat was here, we'd learn them."

She gently rested her right hand on his left shoulder and
felt tense muscles loosen beneath rough homespun. She
narrowed her eyes and watched carefully, then smiled with

Once a Hero   55

% relief. "I see banners of red, with black piping and de-

•l\. vices."

,<:    "Flash of gold from the top of one standard, too, eh?"
^,    The Elven female nodded. "You have the eyes of an
.fJ^eagle, Shenan. Just so you know, those are likely Aurdon
^Rangers."

"How likely?"

Gena squatted down and pointed at a rider at their
head. "I believe that is Durriken riding beside their captain,
ao I do not fear another Haladin raid."

•„•}•'"   The boy's smile broadened, piling up dimples at the
^ comers of his mouth. "Can I tell my ma?"

t/    Gena nodded, and quite quickly the whole camp had its
t:' attention drawn to the approaching riders. She joined the
!;. refugees in smiling at the riders, but she neither shouted
nor waved until Durriken cut abruptly to the right for a
slow-count of three, then rode back to the line. With that
signal she knew he had come without coercion or under
duress, so she raised her left hand and shouted a welcome.

Durriken rode a bit ahead of the Rangers and reined up
i' short. Cupping her jaw gently in his long-fingered hands,
he bent down from the saddle and kissed Gena, then
winked at her and turned back toward the others. "Lady
Genevera Sylvanii, may I present Captain Floris Fisher of
t the Aurdon Rangers, Seventh Regiment."

,    Gena curtsied as the Rangers' leader reined his chestnut
stallion to a halt before her. Floris rode very tal! in the
saddle, with the wings and horsehair plume on his helmet
accentuating his height. He glanced at her, then quickly
surveyed the area before returning his brown-eyed gaze to
: her. He smiled, bowing his head, but refrained from
| doffing the steel helm that capped his skull and protected
I the back and sides of his neck.

t   "I am honored, M'Lady Sylvanii, and very pleased your
I company has remained unmolested in the time it took us to
get here." Again he looked up and away from her, and
Gena smiled as she realized he was checking to make cer-
tain his men had taken up positions to surround the camp.
"I detached a company to go back to Aurdon with the boy
, to see to the oxen, then asked Durriken to lead us back to
g.you."

56    Michael A. Stackpole

Durnken chuckled lightly, and she saw Floris shoot him
a hooded glance. Something passed between them that she
could not decipher, though she assumed it was more be-
cause it was a gender-bond than a secret to be shared only
among Men. "The Three-Seventh had been sent out to deal
with the raiders we encountered, specifically because Count
Berengar did not want us inconvenienced as we rode to
Aurdon. They caught the main body of Haladina earlier in
the day, and those we found were a group who fled from
the battle."

Gena looked at the black-and-red device painted on
Ftoris's buckler and embroidered on the red tunic he wore
over his gambeson. The downward-pointed equilateral tri-
angular symbol had been split into three parts, in keeping
with the style for most military units. In the upper right
section she saw the crossed arrow and sword that marked
the wearer as a Ranger, and the numerals 3/7 decorating
the area next to it clearly indicated this was the Third Bat-
talion of the Seventh Regiment. In the diamond at the bot-
tom she saw two sleeves knotted above a crossed sword
and dagger, which she knew from legend was part of
Aurdon's crest.

Above it all she saw a red-and-black tiger with a strik-
ing bird perched on its back. She knew the bird to be a
Fisher and the symbol of Count Berengar's family, but the
tiger puzzled her for a moment. It normally appeared only
on Isparian crests, for Ispar alone could rightly claim impe-
rial traditions. Because of its position on the device Gena
knew it stood for the unit's supreme commander, which
she already knew to be Count Berengar.

She smiled sweetly. "Count Berengar is of imperial
blood?"

Floris nodded proudly. "He is. The emperor acknowl-
edged the count's mother as a legitimate member of his
family, though she had not been born of a first wife."

"Ah, that is most beneficent and doubtless pleasing to
the count," Genevera recalled that five years before, when
she met then Lord Berengar in Filistan, he had not worn a
tiger on his crest. "This honor must have been bestowed
recently."

"A year hence, m'lady." Floris held his head up a bit

Once a Hero   57

higher. "The Seventh accompanied him to Ispar for the
ceremony."

Durriken gave Floris a wry grin.

"And doubtless he needed the Seventh to fight his way
to the capital."

"It was an interesting journey to Jarudin, Durriken, but
we were not hard-pressed despite some unpleasantries."
Floris smiled and wiped sweat from the side of his face.
"Once we arrived in Blackoak, we traveled with the earl's
household troops, so the Seventh was able to relax some-
what."

"The Earl of Blackoak is known for his appreciation of
discipline and martial order." His saddle creaking, Rik
dropped to the roadway and stamped the dust from his
boots. "Gena, the count would like us in Aurdon as soon
as possible, so the good captain here has offered us some
fresh horses and a company to ride back to the city. It's
really not that far now, barely six hours at a fast ride."

Floris nodded in agreement. "We would have been here
sooner, but when Durriken found me, I was reuniting my
squads after they had been chasing Haladina through the
hills. We took the night to get some sleep and repair our
equipment in case of fighting this morning."

"The offer of an escort back to Aurdon is most wel-
come, Captain Floris, but I find myself reluctant to leave
these good people behind here." Gena looked back at the
ragged camp and took heart in noting the smiles and laugh-
ter from the refugees. "Though they appear to be happy
now, we )ust had a scare with a snake, and they see
Haladina in every shadow. I wonder if their joy will last
into the night."

Floris looked the camp over, then nodded- "I under-
stand your feelings, m'lady. I will send a company back
with you, but keep the other two companies here. The
oxen and my last company should be here in a day; then I
will bring all back to Aurdon. No Haladina would dare
attack a force or over one hundred fifty men- The welfare
of the refugees is now my duty."

"Then I know their safety is assured. If you will excuse
me. Captain, I will prepare my kit and we will be on our
way." Gena smiled, curtsied, and turned away, Rik fol-

58    Michael A. Stackfmie

lowed her, leading Benison by the reins, as she circled
around the main camp to the small area she had set up for
herself. One of the wagons largely screened it from the
main encampment, affording both her and the Men a polite

degree of privacy.

Rik took advantage of it by catching her arm and turn-
ing her around, then enfolding her in a warm embrace. She
lowered her lips to his, once, gently, then again more pas-
sionately. She normally would have been more reserved
and would have held back when others could watch them.
While no prohibition on relations between Men and Elves
existed, conservative Men often had as much difficulty wel-
coming Elven/Human relations as the Consilliarii did. Feel-
ing Rik's arms around her and tasting his lips almost made
her giddy with relief and neady banished her concerns over
other's reactions to their relationship. While she had been
alone in camp, her sense of duty had overridden the anxi-
ety she had felt concerning Durriken's safety away from
her. With the troops taking responsibility for the refugees
from her, she luxuriated in the cessation of pressure and
felt happy that her silent prayers to Kyori to bring Rik back
to her safely had been answered.

Rik broke the embrace and smiled. "As much as I hate
being parted from you, I must admit returning almost
makes going away seem worth it."

Gena reached down and plucked her blue woolen blan-
ket from the ground. "1 suspect you had the more interest-
ing time." She handed the end with the broad red stripe to
Rik, then took the green-striped end for herself. Together
they shook the dust out of it, then began to fold it in quar-
ters, making it a narrow strip. "The children asked for
another story, so I told them of another of Neal's adven-
tures—the one where he bested the Dreel king and made
him his slave. Many of the mothers seemed to disapprove,

though."

Rik nodded as he began to roll the blanket up and move
toward Gena. "You must remember, my love, that Neal's
not the greatest of human heroes."

Genevera blinked her violet eyes. "How can you say
that? What he did to the Reithrese alone . . ."

"Love, I've come to see him through your eyes, so 1

Once a Hero   59

know what Elves think of Neal. True enough, he was a
hero, but to Men weaned on the Eldsaga, well, his alliance
with your kind is viewed with suspicion." Rik held the
bundled blanket tight while Gena wrapped a heavy canvas
ground cloth around it and tied it with leather thongs.
"The stories you tell of Neal are grand, and I love the way
you tell them, but to many a Man who actually knows
them, the tales of Neal Elfward are tragedies to make tears
flow into beer on a long tavern night."

Gena nodded distractedly. She'd seen the gulf between
her image of Neai and the standard Human image of Neal
—if the Humans to whom she spoke knew of him at all.
There had been but five Elven generations born since the
time Neal walked the earth and fought his battles, but
among Men there had been at least ten more than that-
Here in Centisia, near Aurdon, or up in Ispar, Neal was
remembered by Men, but elsewhere he was as much a myth
as the Reithrese or the Dreel.

Count Berengar Fisher had been one of the few Men
she had ever met with a keen interest in Neal. He had
confided in her, when they met, that the standard stories
told of Neal Elfward in Aurdon had only whetted his appe-
tite to know more. She had obliged him by relating a cou-
ple of her more favorite tales and even went so far as to tell
him that she had heard them from the lips of her grandfa-
ther, the Elf known to men as Aarundel—a confidence she
had not yet shared with Rik.

"You are correct, of course, Rik." Gena shrugged her
shoulders, highlights slithering through her hair like gilded
serpents. "Neal's tradition, among Elves, is tinged with
that same tragedy, I think. I suppose my campaign to em-
phasize his heroism is doomed to failure."

Rik tapped the tip of her nose with his index finger.
"Well, you have one convert, at least." He glanced slyly
this way and that, his hands resting on the butts of his
fiashdrakes. "Any man that decides to weep at one of your
stories will have to deal with me."

Gena laughed aloud, the overture of melancholy ban-
ished by Rik's antics. Though she had known him for only
three years, he seemed to be almost prescient in his ability
to make her laugh or change her mood. She had once

60    Michael A. Stackpole

thought, after a century and a half spent studiously learn-
ing her magick, that simple things could no longer delight
her. In a drive to combat that diminution of her soul she
had tried to recover much of the innocence of her child-
hood and had worked hard to study and gather together
the stories of Neal Custos Sylvanii.

Yet even that, she reminded herself as she neatly packed
her saddlebags, had not been sufficient to reawaken her
sense of life. She petitioned the Consilliani for permission
(o travel outside Cygestolia, and they had reluctantly
granted it. At the same time they began a subtle campaign
to blunt her wish to travel by telling her all manner of
horror stories about the world outside the Elven Holdings
—prime among them the danger that she might meet and
believe she had fallen in love with a Man. Far from dis-
suading her, it only made her more interested in leaving
Cygestolia, and in the dozen years since her departure, she
had felt no desire to return to her home.

And having met Rik, she did not regret her decision to
travel in the first place.

Unfolding her saddle blanket, she plucked a thistle from
it, then draped the thick cloth over Spirit's spine. She
wrested her saddle from the ground and settled it on the
back of her horse. Rik cinched the saddle up tight while
Gena coaxed the gelding into taking the bit and accepting
die bridle. She fastened her bedroll behind the cantle, then
laid her saddlebags over the horse's haunches.

Swinging up into the saddle, she reined the horse
around and followed Rik back to the road. There they
pined up with a company of soldiers under the command
of a Man whom Floris introduced as Lieutenant Waldo
Fisher. With him in the lead and the soldiers riding behind,
they set off for Aurdon.

Gena found herself taking a slight dislike to Waldo, but
she found it difficult to isolate the reason behind that feel-
ing. He clearly knew his business because he had outriders
on both sides of the column as well as a screen of scouts
forward and a squad given to lagging back behind the main
body. While short and a bit broad in the waist—almost
built like Ae Reithrese were supposed to have been—he
was not an unpleasant-looking man. The attention he paid

Once a Hero   61

to his surroundings marked him as intelligent, for he con-
stantly looked around and once sent a rider to direct his
scouts to investigate the fire-blackened ruins of a croft up
off the road.

Then she saw it when Waldo glanced over at Rik and
the soldier's face soured. It was a momentary thing, barely
a heartbeat in duration, but the expression had carried
with it a mixture of hatred and contempt. It was not the
first time she had seen such an expression, but when she
had, most often it had been directed at her—and then only
by ignorant Men despising her because of her heritage.

She tickled Spirit's ribs with her heels and came in close
beside Rik- "How much did you tell them about yourself
last night?"

The small man shrugged nonchalantly. "Not that
much, realty. We were all sharing war stories. I mentioned
an adventure or two, but nothing to reflect badly on you."

Gena nodded. She had met Rik through a Nakani
dealer in antiquities. She had been invited to the merchant's
estate to see if she could possibly determine the nature of
some enchantments on two pieces of jewelry. She had been
told these recent acquisitions were supposed to be Elven,
but so seldom was Elven metalwork seen in the world of
Men that the dealer needed her expert opinion on it.

As the merchant brought out the chest in which the
items had rested, Gena had wondered about the small, si-
lent man who stood behind the fat merchant's chair. His
brown eyes seemed to take in everything and were bright
with inquisitiveness, but his tension told in his crossed
arms and in his swift attention to even the slightest wind-
whisper or floor creak.

Genevera instantly recognized the style of the two
pieces in the mahogany casket. The merchant lifted one
from its black velvet bed and handed it to her. Hammered
out of silver and set with an onyx oval, the metal bracer
had two features that distinguished it for her. From the cuff
a strong bit of chain connected it to a silver ring set with
another piece of onyx. The other edge of the bracer, which
came to a point almost four inches from the cuff at the
midpoint where the onyx had been set, had silver mail dec-

62    Michael A. Stackpole

orating it. Its mate was smaller and more delicate and had
been set with ovals of lapis and opal.

She considered for a moment how much she could tell
them about it without compromising traditions and cus-
toms her people preferred to keep secret. "These two pieces
are of Elven manufacture- They are wedding tokens. This
one is for the groom, and the other, which you can see is
smaller, is for the bride. The mail indicates the groom was
a warrior. The ring was worn around his middle finger."

The merchant smiled. "And the magicks?"

She turned the bracer over and back again, and concen-
trated to pick up traces of the magick worked into it, even
though she well knew what the spell would be. "It is an
enchantment related to the marriage ceremony." She hesi-
tated and the merchant missed it, but the small man caught
it. "It roughly calls for the love between them to outlast the
metal making up the tokens; then it prevents the silver
from tarnishing." The magick really did much more and in
the hands of an enemy the tokens could become very pow-
erful weapons if used against those who had worn them;

but Genevera felt the Men had no need for that informa-
tion.

The smaller man spoke, prompting the merchant to
frown, "Is there any way, my Lady, to determine for whom
these have been made? I assume they'd not be abandoned
lightly."

"No, they would normally be destroyed if the marriage
was dissolved." She turned the bracelet over and up so she
could see inside the cuff. "Ah, there are maker-marks here.
Yes, I ..." She stopped as her throat tightened. She rec-
ognized the marks instantly and bit her lower lip to stop it
from trembling. "I know for whom these were fashioned.
The pieces are nearly five centuries old. They belonged to
my grandparents."

"Who are now dead?"

The ghoulishly hopeful note in the merchant's voice
shocked her and clearly angered the smaller man. "They
are still alive. I would like to know where you got these."

The merchant looked back at the small man, disap-
pointment evident on his face. "You may tell her what you
wish. I abide by our agreement."

Once a Hero   63

The smaller man unfolded his arms, depositing the twin
fiashdrakes on the table, then bowed to her. "I am Dur-
riken. I supply Frigyes here with things. We've agreed that
he can sell anything we can't get back to the owner or an
heir. These bracelets, as I understand it, were found about
a hundred years ago by someone digging in the Dead
Mountains. Various connoisseurs traded for them, and
they recently came into my possession. But now they're
yours. I hope your kin will be happy to get them back."

"If they do not want them," the merchant smiled solici-
tously, "I am certain the original owner would love to
regain them."

Durriken snarled at the merchant, and the man sank
back in his chair. "Her km are the original owners. Sell
Polus the imperial goblets I obtained a year ago to salve
him, and let Avner console himself with getting the marble
goddess that accompanied these beauties when they left
Polus's vault."

Gena looked at the small man. "You're a thief?"

"Frigyes prefers to call me a Practical Antiquarian, but
'thief sums it up nicely." He shrugged and pointed to the
bracelets. "I've accepted as my life's duty preventing collec-
tors from becoming too comfortable with their loot."

Gena came out of her reverie as one of the scouts rode
back to the main body of troops. He reported to Waldo;

then the soldier turned to face the two of them. "They
found a dead Haladin bandit in the croft. He had been
wounded in the chest. One of yours?"

"Likely." Durriken nodded curtly.

"More of the warrior in you than I would have imag-
ined."

"I do my best to hide it, but there are times it slips out."

Waldo raised an eyebrow at that remark, then faced
forward and kept riding.

Gena frowned at Rik. "In these stories you told, did
you mention you were a thief?"

"How they'd have figured that, I don't know." A smug
smile and playful wink put the lie to that statement. "You
think that's a problem?"

"Rik, Aurdon is a city founded by and run by mer-
chants!"

64    Michael A. Stackpole

"And a bigger den of thieves we'll not likely find this
side of Najinda. Merchants are )ust thieves who prefer rob-
bing you while making you think you're getting a bar-
gain."

"Rik!"

The thief smiled and patted her left knee. "Don't worry,
Gena, I'll be on my best behavior, I promise."

"Promise?"

"My solemn oath." Durriken placed a hand over his
heart for a second. "Besides, until you pass through the city
gates, Aurdon has nothing I want."

The road itself followed the valley floors as it wound its
way through the hills to Aurdon. Waldo, either impatient
to get back to the city or complying with orders, took nu-
merous shortcuts. At all times he kept his scouts and out-
riders in place even though their unorthodox route made
the chance of ambush much smaller.

Riding up and over the hills provided Gena with
breathtaking views of grasslands stretching as far as the eye
could see. Farms dotted the landscape, their sod houses
looking like warts raised on the bare hillsides. Gena shiv-
ered unconsciously when she looked at them and was
thankful Waldo had not suggested stopping at one. She
understood the necessity of sod houses in a land of so few
trees, but growing up in Cygestolia had left her feeling as if
dwelling in the mud were somehow blasphemous.

The sun had begun its descent into the underworld
when she saw the first hint of Aurdon. She doubted the
Fishers and Riverens would have enjoyed knowing what
her first clue to the city's presence was. Even before the city
itself came into view, she saw a brownish haze hanging at
the lower end of the river valley toward which they rode.
Recalling the cloud raised by the Seventh Regiment's ap-
proach, she wondered at first if it might be the oxen being
driven back to meet the refugees. That speculation lasted
only a minute longer, dying when a breeze brought to her
the woody scent of thousands of cookstoves. Only then did
she realize the haze had been created as the city devoured

Once a Hero   65

what were once proud forests to feed its hunger for build-
ing materials and fuel.

Riding in on the river road, Gena first caught sight of
the city as they came around a bend. The moment she saw
the metropolis, she shuddered. The ivory stone used to
build the city's walls and largest buildings reminded her of
aged bone. It appeared to her as if the earth's flesh had
been gashed open and people had taken up residence in the
wound, reshaping bone to suit their needs. It struck her
that her revelation would have been better suited to a
Dwarf, for the gods had used them to create the world—
yet she knew her dismay came from the scarcity of green in
the city before her.

Aurdon sprawled over a half-dozen hills, and three
stone ribbons of wall surrounded the municipal core. The
tallest buildings had been constructed within the second
ring, and some more prosperous and ambitious dwellings
lurked within the third. Outside the walls, smaller dwell-
ings and various business establishments had spread across
die valley, with a fair amount of the riverbanks near the tri-
river confluence given over to warehouses and docks for
servicing the barge trade.

A trumpet blast from the scouts parted traffic on the
main road, so the company made quick time riding north
to the first set of city gates. The guards up on the ramparts
looked down at them, but did not challenge them, nor paid
them overmuch attention. Waldo led them off on the first
wide street that headed east and uphill around to the sec-
ond gate.

The second gate had been placed facing north-north-
east, requiring an army that breached the south gate to
fight its way uphill to get to it. The Rangers, save Waldo
and his scouts, rode off to their barracks while the lieuten-
ant continued out and around, leading Gena and Rik to the
third and final city gate. After riding down into a valley
between two hills, they rode up again and around to the
northwest to make another uphill approach to the gate.

Rik caught Gena's eye. "I've entered palaces at mid-
night with less difficulty than this."

Waldo shot Rik a sharp glance. "I have no doubt you

66    Michael A. Stackpole

have, Master Durriken. We have built much here in
Aurdon that others covet."

"I can see that, Lieutenant." Rik replied to the man
respectfully, not rising to the bait of disdain in Waldo's
voice.

The guards at the last gate snapped to attention as the
group rode through. The pace of travel slowed, less, Gena
thought, because the streets were crowded than because the
people lining the streets here appeared to be a better class
of denizen than those choking the avenues and courtyards
outside the third ring. And she marked in Waldo's attitude
a change that allowed her to think he was not so much
concerned with riding even these people down as he was
with being able to strut importantly before them.

As she had come to expect, she became the object of
stares and whispers, much to Waldo's apparent consterna-
tion. While the inhabitants of an urban center such as
Aurdon doubtlessly would scoff at the way the farmers had
feared her on the road, they, too, woutd feel a trickle of
terror if she met their gazes openly. Gena accepted that the
novelty of seeing an Elf for the first—and perhaps only—
time invited study, and she did not hold with other Elves
who maintained this proved Men to be little better than the
lowing bovines they tended in fields.

Curiously enough, Gena noticed a certain amount of
deference being paid to Durriken. He seemed to have no-
ticed it as well, because she caught him furtively glancing
about, yet he accepted it and even nodded to one or two
women who curtsied as he passed. His reception appeared
to anger Waldo—if his scowl and stiff spine could be
trusted to measure his mood—but the lieutenant did noth-
ing to act on his feelings.

Waldo reined his mount to a halt before a stone build-
ing with the ivory patina of age in the stone walls and
columns. Dismounting, he turned the reins of his horse
over to one of his scouts, and two others came forward to
care similarly for Spirit and Benison. Rik dismounted with
a flourish, then patted Benison on the neck. He offered
Gena his hand, and she took it less for assistance than the
desire to touch him and be close.

Hand in hand they followed Waldo up broad steps, be-

Once a Hero   67

tween two statues of perched Fishers and through cast-iron
doors a full fifteen feet in height and half that in width.
Without introduction or travelogue, he led them across the
marble-inlaid foyer, around the decorative pond in which
aurfish swam lazily, and on into a long hallway in which
the spaces between the arched windows were covered by
heavy tapestries. Though she recognized none of the scenes
depicted, Gena assumed they came from Fisher family his"
tory because of the way the knotted sleeves played promi-
nently across the top of each tableau, and because the
tapestries themselves were fastened to the wait by iron
hooks made to look like the talons of a Fisher.

Halfway down the corridor Gena began to hear the
sounds of fighting, the ringing skirl of steel disengaging
itself from steel. As no shouts of alarm accompanied it and
Waldo did not react to it, she assumed the sound was not
alien to the house this late in the day. Waldo turned right
and pointed them through a doorway that opened onto a
wide porch standing above a small courtyard surrounded
by a splendid garden.

Despite all the combatants being covered in studded
leather armor and wearing full helms, Gena recognized
Count Berengar instantly. The locks of flame-red hair
hanging down from beneath the helmet only provided con-
firmation of the conclusion she had based on his tall stature
and heavily muscled body. Clad in black, using a rapier in
each hand, he moved with a fluid grace she remembered
well from the dance floor at the reception where they had
met.

The two men he fought worked well as a team, yet
remained unable to pierce his defenses- Berengar kept his
blades wide, facing them straight on, waiting for them to
choose an avenue for attack. Normally that would have
resulted in his death, but Berengar's extended reach, fast
parries, and swifter ripostes meant closing with him was to
enter a sphere of death in which he held sway.

"M'lord, I have arrived with your guests." Waldo's an-
nouncement and a muffled "Hold," from Berengar brought
the fight to a halt. As Berengar handed his blades to a
servant and doffed his helmet, Waldo turned to Rik. "You
will surrender your flashdrakes to me now, sirrah."

68    Michael A. Stackpole

Gena felt a jolt through Rik's right hand, but her grip
prevented his drawing one of the handcannons or punching
Waldo. Rik shot Gena a sharp glance, then almost instantly
let his anger go. "I beg your pardon. Lieutenant? Did you
ask to examine one of my flashdrakes?"

"No, I demanded their surrender. It is the law here in
Aurdon."

"Waldo! What is this?" Berengar rushed up the steps
and stopped several short of the landing, keeping himself at
eye level with Durriken. "These are my guests."

The soldier blinked with surprise. "But the law, it is
clear. He . . ."

"He is my guest." Berengar shook his head and sighed,
then looked up at Durriken. "Forgive this discourtesy,
please. Waldo is correct in that it is a law here in Aurdon
that only nobles may possess flashdrakes. I can clearly see
these are of Dwarven manufacture, not the poorly con-
structed imitations that the Haladina occasionally circu-
late." The big man looked back at the people standing in
the arena below. "While we have chosen to eschew flash-
drakes in favor of more honorable weapons, the law was
passed to prevent commoners and peasants from being
harmed by the combustion of inferior examples of hand-
cannons. If you will give me your parole that you will not
use them except in most dire need, I believe we will have no
difficulty with your continued possession of them."

Durriken nodded graciously. "You have my word on it,
my lord."

"Splendid." Berengar stepped up to the landing and
smiled at Gena. "My dear lady, it is once again an honor to
bask in your radiance." He bowed, then took her right
hand and kissed it gently, his moustache and beard tickling
her flesh.

Gena looked up at him and smiled. "And I, we, are
honored to be received in your home. You are looking
well."

"And with you here, I am much, much better." He
turned to face Durriken. "I understand from the men Cap-
tain Floris sent back that you are Durriken, a finder of
items long lost."

Rik bowed his head. "I am."

Once a Hero   69

"Fortune smiles, then, that you have come with Lady
Genevera." Berengar's glance flicked past their Joined
hands, his bright blue eyes narrowing for a moment; then
he pointed them past Waldo and back into the house. "I
have arranged for adjoining suites for you. I would have
used but one; however, my parsimonious forebears made
the guest accommodations quite small- Please use one as
your parlor and the other as your private chamber."

"My lord is most generous."

"I hope you will think so after we have a chance to
speak more fully." A hint of urgency drifted into Beren-
gar's voice. "As Lady Genevera can tell you, I tend to be
more direct than other nobles, and I know you must be
wondering why I asked for her to come here with all haste.
'I realize you are road weary and wish to rest, especially
after having to deal with Haladina on the road, but I feel
letting you know the reason I summoned you is quite im-
portant.'"

He looked at her quite solemnly. "You know, of course,
that Neal Elfward played a key role in the history of
Aurdon."

Gena nodded. "I do."

"Good." Berengar's eyes narrowed. "I've asked you
here because I need your knowledge of him—and good
Durriken's skills will likewise be valuable, I think. You see,
I need to unmake what Neal created. If I do not, a city that
has prospered over five centuries will cease to exist inside
five years."

Chapter 4

Deceiving the Lords
ofAurium

_x

Late Summer

Reign of the Red Tiger Year 1

Five Centuries Ago

My Thirty-fifth Year

The final two hours of our journey to Aurium took the
form of a nightride. We rode through dark woodlands and
the northern foothills of the central mountains. Though we
had seen no signs of Haladin mayhem since the ambush, I
let Aarundel ride point and had Shijef ranging through the
woods ahead of him. Aarundel's keen nightvision made
him proof against the sort of trick that had gotten me, and
Shijef s orders allowed him enough leeway to cause the sort
of trouble that would raise an alarm for us.

The woods abruptly ended in a stump meadow that
marked the source of the wood used to build most of
Aurium. While the merchants who controlled the town
dared name it "City of Gold" in the Elven tongue, truth
was that the town had been built of tree-flesh and only
recently had acquired a building of stone. It was supposed
to have a palisade, which could help in defending it against

Once a Hero   71

the Haladina, but I knew of no local militia or native
troops that called Aurium home.

We rode past some woodcutter camps, and that
sparked some optimistic comments from my fellows. We
had all feared that a Haladin force had somehow eluded
our detection and laid siege to Aurium. Given the nature of
the Man-town, a torch or two would have had it burning
hotter than the firewell in jammaq. Chances were, how-
ever, that the Haladina wouldn't bum it because of its con-
trol over river traffic.

Up ahead, on the crest of the last hill leading to the
Aurium valley, Aarundel stopped his horse and whistled. I
rode forward and drew abreast of his position. From our
vantage point I could see little because the city lay a good
half mile ahead or us in the darkness, but that did not
bother my eagle-eyed companion. Where I saw dots of light
in a pool of brooding darkness, he saw much more.

"The gates are open, Neal. There are no custodians on
the walls."

I looked hard out into the darkness but saw nothing
more nor less than I expected. The night's breeze came up
from the river and into my face, but I smelled nothing to
indicate the lights I saw were the embers of a fire that had
consumed the town. "Does all else look normal?" I gave
him a quick smile. "Excepting the fact it's a Man-town."

"Absent that consideration, I see a nimiety of normal-
ity." AarundePs face remained impassive, but he let some
amusement bleed into his words. Though we were good
friends—brothers born of different races—Aarundel held
himself tightly and seldom let down the fierce Elven facade
that reminded others of the excesses ascribed to Elven Le-
gions by the Eldsaga. When we were alone he would open
up, but being soul-kin meant I understood the part he was
playing and why he played it.

Blackstar shuddered and shied toward Aarundel's
horse, which meant only one thing. I looked down to my
left and a half-dozen paces forward- Crouched there sniff-
ing the wind, Shijef turned his nose toward Aurium.
"Lifeblack pools." He raised his head and let out a how!
that echoed through the valley. "Lifeblack floods."

More than the howl, his words sent a shiver down my

72    Michael A. Stackpole

spine. Over the dozen years through which I have suffered
my Dreel slave, I learned one fact that was true. Like an old
man whose bunions can foretell a gathering storm, Shijef
just out and out knows when violence is building in an
area. Given his choice, he would seek it out the way a
lonely man hunts for a smile and a laugh.

He undoubtedly knew the ambush in the woods was
coming, but he did not warn me because he knew the
chances of my getting killed were—in his eyes—minima!.
While my death would end his servitude to me, he was a
creature of curious honor. As much as he hated me for
enslaving him, he accepted that his servitude was the prize I
won in our contest. As a result, he pledged himself to pre-
serving my life. He left me to the Haladina on the trail
because the man was not a threat, but killed the horseman
because he could have killed me.

It had taken me a long time to see Shijef as more than a
bear and a tiger mixed together with a lot of anger and a
limited vocabulary. Not only was he intelligent, but he un-
derstood emotions and concepts like honor and friendship.
I never imagined we would be friends because, unlike
Aarundel and me, our partnership was not one of willing
participation. Still, I had some admiration for the Dreel
and trusted his reading of murky and complex situations
under the right circumstances.

Circumstances such as these.

I glanced at the Dreel. "Shijef, are there Haladina in the
town?"

"Not sandmen." The monster half hopped a bit down
the hillside. "Denmen."

"Civil strife during a war?" Aarundel's saddle groaned
as the Elf shifted his weight and reseated his feet in the
stirrups. "Is intervention warranted?"

"It is, I'm thinking." I squeezed my knees together and
urged Blackstar forward. ShiJefs predictions of death com-
ing to a place could be deflected or contradicted with
proper action- If we could stop whatever was going on in
Aunum, it would frustrate the Dreel, and that would be
punishment enough for what he did to the Haladin war-
rior- "Being as how the Red Tiger is not wanting a whole

Once a Hero   73

Reithrese navy descending on Polston, saving this inflated
barter-post is likely within our duties."

The fifteen of us rode on into the valley and up to the
gates. I put Senan in command and set him to closing the
gates and seeing how secure the town was. The wooden
palisade looked in fine repair, but the open gates bothered
me. While I felt fair certain no Haladina had gotten this far
north, I had no desire to have them inside Aurium when I
learned I was wrong.

Aarundel, the Dreel, and I headed deeper into the town-
It took neither the Elf's vision nor the Dreel's deathsight to
direct us toward the center of the trouble in Aurium. Most
of the town lay quiet and shut up tight against possible
violence. Not a shutter opened as we rode through the
muddy streets—the fear in the air clung like swampscent
and smelled not nearly as sweet.

When we reached the stone building on the top of the
hillock at the town's heart, I immediately knew what had
to be going on. Two groups of Men stood on either side of
the building's wooden doors. They had no weapons in
hand, and were valiantly doing their best to ignore each
other. Our arrival made that easy, though the eldest of
each group stepped forward to give us orders—bringing
the two groups of five into conflict again.

Without a word between us, Aarundel and I reined up
just short of the men and dismounted in unison. Mirrors of
each other, we nipped our reins to each of the groups' self-
appointed legates. "Obliged, gentlemen. Now you'll be
opening the doors for us."

"That is not possible," one Man blurted out quickly.
His deep flush and hot words told me he was not in a good
mood. He hastily signaled to one of the other Men in his
group to take Blackstar's reins. "The doors are closed until
the council makes a decision."

The sounds coming from beyond the doors sounded to
me like those from a bloodpit duel, but I'd seen politics go
malignant and become war before. "Good, then we are yet
in time. They'll not be wanting to make a decision before
they have had our counsel."

The Man in front of me moved to block my path. I
could see from the emblem crudely embroidered on the

74    Michael A. Stackpole

breast of his tunic that he was bound to the Fisher Clan. A
bird in flight, it had a fish in its beak and a purse clutched
in its talons. I knew the Fishers to be one of the two clans
that lived in and around Aurium.

Opposite him, stood his equal in the employ of the
Riveraven Clan. Like the Fishers, they took their name
from that of a bird that frequented the tri-river valley.
Common wisdom had it that Riveravens were rats with
wings and that Fishers regularly placed their eggs in River-
aven nests to be tended. I'd also heard people wonder if the
two clans wouldn't have gotten along well had their fore-
bears been wiser m their totem-choices, because the two
families seemed to everyone outside them to complement
each other.

"Goodman, I do not doubt you've been given a duty to
perform here tonight." I stepped in close to him, mounting
the first of three steps to the level of the doorway- My right
hand reached out quicker than he could see or block, and
slipped my dagger. Wasp, from the sheath over my right
hip. "Now, you're all guards, and that's a right proud job
to be having."

Flicking the blade forward, I stuck it quivering in the
right-side door to the squat and ugly legislatorium. I'd not
expected the blade to stick really—Wasp has all the balance
of a one-legged man hopping on wet ice—but the door's
soft wood would have held the blade even if it had backed
into place. Behind me the Dreel yipped appreciatively, and
at my side Aarunde! )ust narrowed his black eyes. "What
you don't want to be are dead guards, I'm thinking."

The combined effect of action and words worked to
open the doors faster than a latchkey. The two gangs of
rowdies opened the building for us, bowing low and mum-
bling very polite greetings in what I believed they thought
was Elven. Aarundel remained as silent and implacable as
death, while the Dreel sniffed at one Man, then another,
like a customer sorting fresh fish from spoiled. I recovered
Wasp and rehomed it, then stepped through the threshold
as if I were bound to see the Reithrese emperor in Jarudin.

The Hall of Laws had not risen very tall because of the
cost of bringing stone in from the quarries upriver. To
make the structure big, the people of Aurium had dug

Once a Hero   75

down into the hillock. Whereas outside, the building only
rose a score feet above the ground, within the hall itself a
good forty feet stood between floor and ceiling.

The excavated area had been paved with smooth river-
stone. It seemed to me that what had been born of econ-
omy had turned out to be quite decorative. Three terraces
surrounded the central floor- They had been finished in
fancy woods of gold and rich mahogany, adding some
warmth to the cold white of the hillock's stone carapace.
Benches and tables provided seating for those who would
enact laws. For such a small town, the Hail of Laws was a
thing of which the people could be proud.

My earlier impressions of the sounds proved more cor-
rect than I would have imagined. The three of us arrived in
the midst of what had to be a heated debate. Two young
men circled each other in the center of the stone floor. Each
had his left arm bared, as their tunic sleeves had been
stripped off and knotted together to form a short tether.
Each man held tight to the tether with his left hand- The
loose cuffs stood up from the knot like rabbit ears and
flopped this side and that as the two men pulled back and
forth on the tether.

Each man held a dagger in his right hand. The blades
more resembled filleting knives than they did Wasp, but
each was long, sharp, and pointy enough to reach the heart
through the ribs. Each also glistened with blood which, I
gathered from the stains on each combatant's tattered tu-
nic, came from a series of shallow wounds. Both the
wounds and the way the two men moved listlessly told me
any enthusiasm they'd had for the fight had been swal-
lowed by exhaustion and excreted as mortal fear.

Surrounding them, standing on benches and sitting on
desks, nearly the whole of the two clans hooted and hol-
lered encouragement. I saw the mother of one lad sitting on
the side, clinging to a daughter and crying silently. Uncles
and cousins jerked and dodged in sympathy for their clan's
fighter, but not a one of them had lifeleak splotches on
their clothes. Older and wiser clan members hung back,
occasionally shouting an obligatory bit of advice, but
mostly watching and waiting and calculating what they

76    Michael A. Stackpole

would do in the event of whatever outcome seemed most
likely.

Without breaking stride, I sailed down the open aisle
dividing the legislatonum left from right. I drew Cleave-
heart cleanly as I came and filled my left hand with Wasp.
Before either of the young men even had a chance to notice
me, the sword flashed down and the dagger up, split-shear-
ing the knot. Each of the fighters spilled backward, flailing
sleeve-half waving like the tail on a kite as they went down.

"Foul!" shouted a heavyset, florid-faced man of the
Fisher Clan. "Edward was winning. You, Festus Riveraven,
you cheated!" He pointed across the assembly at a slender
white-haired man kneeling beside his family's champion.
"These are your agents, but they shall not win Aunum for
you."

Festus Riveraven raised his head and did not even look
at me or Aarundel. "Nay, Childeric Fisher, these are not
my agents. You are lucky they interfered when they did, for
Rufus would have spitted your Edward in a minute." He
turned to me and kept a snarl out of all but his eyes and
voice. "Who are you that dares . . ."

Finding as I have in the past that my tolerance for poli-
ticians is inverse to their degree of liveliness, I spoke over
him. "I am Neal Roclawzi and this is Aarundel." I looked
back over my shoulder at where Shijef had taken up a post
guarding the room's only exit. "He is a Dreel and my com-
mand is his will."

Childeric straightened up—no easy task for as corpu-
lent a bulk as I'd ever seen on a man—and eyed me up and
down. "You are the Dun Wolf? You command the Steel
Pack?"

Aarundel gently netted his war ax. "Sound not incredu-
lous when you address Neal Custos Sylvanii. Treat him as a
lack-honor and / will choose the manner of your punish-
ment."

"I meant no disrespect, Lansor Honorary" Childeric
offered in badly accented Elven.

"And I am near certain Aarundel bnperator did not
take it as such. Fisher." I gave him a nasty glare, but saved
half of it for Festus. "Yes, I command the Steel Pack. We
have been sent here to prevent Aurium from falling into

Once a Hero   77

Retthrese hands, but it appears there are other troubles
here."

Festus waved my concern away. "No troubles that de-
mand your attention."

I raised an eyebrow at his statement. "Mayhap, then,
you can explain why you were about turning this place into
a ... a ..."

Aarundel smiled easily. "An abattoir, Custos Sylvanii?"

"Thank you, Aarundel Imperator, An abattoir?"

"It is the business of merchants, mercenary." Festus dis-
missed me with a more vehement wave. "What happens
here is not your concern. It is not your business."

"No?" I used Cleaveheart to link the two bleeding boys
with an arc. "Tell me, then, what was it I saw? Were you
trying to show the sharpness of the blades you sell, or was
that a prelude to showing how a poultice you trade in will
heal cuts?"

"You would not understand!" Festus looked to Chil-
deric for a confirmatory nod and got one quickly. "You are
not a merchant, you cannot understand."

"That may be, but were I a merchant, I know I'd trade
in common sense. Here in Aurium it's in sad supply, and
there is a sore need for it." I took a step toward Festus, and
he pulled back to where his seated son formed a barrier
between us. "I do know some things, though, and one of
them is this: you're all, the lot of you, trading long in hos-
tility, and that means war, which is my concern."

I shook my head and saw Aarundel give me wide berth-
"Now I know, from what you've said, you're not wanting
me to start gathering wool from your sheep, as it were. You
want me to stay out of your business, and I respect that. I
have no doubt you merchants have all sorts of your own
rules and laws for dealing with this and that. Well, now, I
know there are rules of warfare that I abide by, and I
would be offended if anyone came in from the outside and
started breaking them."

I sank my face into that touch-brow kind of expression
that marks long thought with short success. "And I gather
there is another likeness between our professions. Competi-
tion is at the heart of it, really. Like the two of your fami-

78    Michael A. Stacktmie

lies competing one against the other. That's the soul of it,
and if one side wins, the other is driven out of business."

Childeric gave me a patronizing nod. "There, Neal, you
have the right of it. We are alike but different. Leave us,
and let us settle our differences."

"Differences, true enough," I said, aping as much of his
statement as served my purpose. "Of course, the difference
between being a soldier and being a merchant is that my
competition ends up dead. Makes a right fair mess, too,
sometimes." My brow still furrowed, I looked down at the
floor. "Pity, I don't think this will drain well."

Festus shook with anger at my antics. "Prithee, what
are you prattering on about?"

The Elf answered for me. "Even a lackwit could figure
it out, Festus: by introducing killing into your competition
here in Aurium, you have become our competition."

"And our competitors end up dead." I smiled as be-
nignly as I could and nodded at the Dreel. "Shijef, none
shall pass you."

A low, rumbling growl rolled from his throat as his
triangular ears came up to attention and he flexed talon-
shot paws. He displayed his fangs for all, and his tail beat a
happy tattoo against the door.

I shrugged as I turned to Childeric. "You understand,
of course, why we have to do this. I mean, if you set to
warring by yourself, without our help, why then every-
one could just start slaughtering their neighbors. They
wouldn't need us and I'd be obsolete. I would be out of
business. My men would go hungry and their families
would starve. No, no, we can't have that."

Aarundel brought his war ax up and rested it on his
right shoulder. "Was I to terminate the Riveravens or the
Fishers?"

"1 was thinking that I was to do the young, and you
were to start with the old."

"We cannot do that, Neal, for parents might see their
children die, and I would spare them that." The Elf looked
at the two men still seated on the floor. "Then again, that
prospect appears to spawn no dolor here."

Childeric's jaw dropped open. "You cannot do that!"

"Have I a choice?" I smiled benignly at him. "I cannot

Once a Hem   79

expect you to understand, for this is the business of merce-
naries, not merchants."

Festus proved a mite sharper than his competition.
"You are mercenaries, I have money. I will purchase your
services. We will work together, we will unite."

I sighed deeply. "Oh, now, disaster! Why did you have
to do that?"

Festus, for the first time, looked puzzled and just a
touch afraid. "Do what?"

Aarundel looked down at the smaller man and slowly
shook his head. "You have violated the Codex Mer-
cenarius." The ElPs voice, kept low and sinking lower,
paused long enough to make each of the Elven words clear,
crisp, and razor-sharp to the ears.

My nod confirmed the worst fears anyone in the room
could have had. "You see, neither one of you controls the
government here in Centisia, so—as the Codex Mer-
cenarius makes very clear—you cannot hire mercenaries.
By offering us money you reduce us to alley-bashers and
footpads who hurt others for the purpose of making
money."

Childeric shook his head. "But that is what mercenaries
do!" He saw me stiffen and hastily added, "Isn't it?"

"Common misconception, actually. Mercenaries are
warriors who fight beneath the banner of a nation, or polit-
ical subdivision thereof, for the purposes of furthering state
policy." I looked at him. "Is a boy who finds wormy apples
in an orchard and sells them to someone a merchant?"

"I should say not," both Festus and Childeric snapped
indignantly. "We are professionals."

"Then don't be lumping cutpurses and rib-crushers
with us professionals." I turned to Aarundel and smiled.
"You have studied the Codex more recently than I, Impera-
tor. I do not recall a way out of this."

The Elf shrugged and, looking up, studied the marble
walls and ceiling. "This will make for an appropriate sepul-
chre. If everyone could lie down side by side, it would
make the work easier." He casually reached down and
plucked a hair from the red thatch on Rufus's head, then
let it slide in twain down the edge of his ax. "Short of a
total cessation of hostilities, our course is set."

80    Michael A. Stackpote

I nodded, '^eu, there is tfrflt." I smiled at Childeric,
then pointed Cleaveheart at the leonine woman and pretty
young girl standing behind him. "Your wife and daughter?
Good, families should die together."

"Wait, wait." Festus rose from behind his son. "What
was this about stopping the fight?"

I looked at him as if he were a moron. "Clearly, if there
is no war between you, you are not our competition. You
would not try to engage our services, so no violation of the
Codex Mercenarius would have occurred."

The slender man nodded curtly. "Then the fight is over.
There is no war."

Childeric backed him up. "Indeed, total peace. You are
not needed here anymore."

The two of them looked quite smug and self-satisfied
with their solution to the problem—not the problem of
their fighting, but of our objection to it. I shook my bead.
"I may be a mercenary, but I am not a fool. The instant I
leave, you wilt return to your fighting. You will unite in the
face of a common enemy, but then split apart again. You
would play me false."

"No."

"Indeed, you would not." I slid Cleaveheart into its
scabbard, then waved Childeric's daughter forward.
"Come to me, child, do not be afraid." As I made my voice
gentle for her, I took the anger I skimmed out of it and
pumped it through my eyes into her father. "'What is your
name?"

"Ismere, Lord Custos Sylvami." Her Elvish fell soft on
my ear, and from the hint of a nod I saw Aarundel make,
she pleased him as well. She took my hand, her pale flesh
like snow on my darker, scarcrossed skin. Wearing a dress
made of fabric spun and dyed sky-blue in the islands, the
slender slip of a girl had been saved inheriting anything
from her father with the exception of her clan affiliation
and blue eyes.

I felt her tremble and smiled, '^o need to be afraid,
Ismere. I would slay all others before I would cause you
hurt." With Wasp I cut at the seam of her left sleeve and
sliced the stitching all the way up into the armpit. She let

Once a Hero   81

her arm hang limply at her side, bringing her right hand
across her chest to clutch at her left elbow.

I pointed to Rufus. "Excepting the blood, he's not hard
to look at, is he?"

"No, my Lord."

"Fancy him, do you?"

In her eyes I saw an instant recognition of what I was
going to do. She hesitated for a heartbeat and started to
look back at her father, then just looked at Runis. She
studied him for a moment, then nodded. With the convic-
tion of someone realizing she was guaranteeing the future
through her action, she chose her words carefully. "I be-
lieve him wise, couth, and pleasing."

I nodded at Rufus. "On your feet, lad." His father
made to restrain him, but I shook my head. "Don't you
think, Festus, a funeral would make this day very sad?"

Rufus stood, tugged at the hem of his nearly white
homespun tunic and approached. "Yes, m'lord?" He was
wise enough to know he couldn't pronounce my Elven title
as well as Ismere, so he did not even try.

"Could you make Ismere happy?"

"I will."

I slit his right sleeve and knotted their sleeves together.
"This is it, then. By the rights granted me in the Codex
Mercenarius, I bind these two and their families together.
You will work together until this knot is severed by Wasp
and Cleaveheart. Anyone who tries to sunder this union
will have me to deal with, whether I'm dead or alive. This I
vow in the name of Herin."

My invocation of the warrior god's name in a merchant
house brought some mild gasps and got everyone's atten-
tion. In doing that I'd reinforced the idea of lethal conse-
quences if they fought my solution. "You'll be wanting to
have your priests conduct their ceremonies to bless this
marriage, but it's Neal Roclawzi, not the gods, who will
harvest any who interfere with it."

I smiled as I turned to the two fathers. "And as for you,
because old habits die hard, I want to give you a bit of a
competition to occupy your efforts until this settlement has

82    Michael A. Stackpole

anchored in your hearts. This was a wedding. You'll be
wanting to put on a feast to celebrate it. And, as I have the
Steel Pack on the way here, you'll be wanting it to be a
celebration remembered for generations because of the un-
flinching generosity of the hosts."

Chapter 5

The Reason/or Coming

_x

Early Spring
A.R. 499
The Present

Genevera bowed her head politely as Count Berengar
Fisher ushered her into her suite. As he had suggested ear-
lier, the suite itself barely deserved the name. Wider than it
was deep, an archway that held up the roof nominally
functioned to split the bedroom from the area nearest the
door. Heavy curtains gathered at each side of the broad
arch and, when drawn, would sever one half of the room
from the other effectively, but would also shield the bed
from the fireplace in the north wall.

Beyond the arch, in the sleeping area, Gena had two
small arched lead-glass windows that looked out into one
of the manor's gardens. Spring had not yet brought blos-
soms to the flowers, but the shrubs and plants had all be-
gun to produce new growth, blending new green with older
green in a display that pleased her. Since the windows
faced east, she knew she would get the dawning sun, and it
made her happy that she would start the day with the sun's
warm caress.

84 Michael A. Stackpole

Back in the northeast corner she saw a narrow door,
which Count Berengar opened immediately. Durnken ap-
peared through it and winked at her, then nodded. "Late
Imperial furnishings- I am impressed, my lord, for such
things are very expensive now."

The larger man scratched at the diagonal scar beneath
his left eye. "I would accept your praises. Master Durriken,
but we have these antiques because my penurious ancestors
never even dreamed of buying anything new unless some-
thing old had fallen to pieces." His massive left hand
stroked the carefully carved scrollwork on the corner of a
chest of drawers. "These pieces have served well and would
long since have fallen apart were they not housed in these
seldomly used rooms."

Gena sensed weariness in the way Berengar spoke of his
elders, as if he were well and truly sick of convincing them
of one thing or another. She felt it somewhat odd that she
could look at the wooden furnishings in the room and view
them as serviceable yet less than appealing pieces, while the
two Men recognized some value in them for their antiquity.
She could not be certain, but she felt confident that she was
actually older than most of the pieces in the room—and she
hoped this was, in fact, the case with the straw in the can-
opy bed's mattress.

"My lord, your statement earlier suggests to me that
these pieces might see no more service if we cannot help
you." Gena moved away from the bed and back into the
forward part of her room, then seated herself in a rough-
hewn chair. "Can you tell us more of what you want of
us?"

Berengar nodded easily and pulled a chair around so he
could face her. He started to speak, then hesitated and
pointed at the sideboard. "Would you like some wine?
Something to eat, perhaps?"

"Wine, yes, thank you."

"I'll play the server." Durriken waved them back into
their chairs. "I can listen while my hands work—makes my
tasks go easier."

"I am in your debt." Berengar raked his red hair back
into place with his fingers, then hunched forward with
elbows on knees. "The union Neal forced on the Fishers

Once a Hero   85

•Jr

and Riverens worked well for a generation or two. From
the start, in memory of his friend, the Red Tiger made the
Knott family the representatives for trade within the prov-
ince of Centisia. They shared with their cousins and
brought all of us the prosperity that built much of the inner
city.

"The next couple of generations from the Knotts mar-
ried back into the Fishers and Riverens, then the line died
out when no more male heirs appeared. That's when one of
the Riverens made the first attempt at severing the alliance.
He set out to poison one of the Fishers, but ended up a
felos-de-se, as I believe you put it in the Sylvanii."

Gena nodded, then looked up as Durriken frowned
over at the sideboard. "Felos-de-se is a person who dies as
a result of some nefarious enterprise of his own execution."

Rik nodded and handed Gena a silver goblet filled with
a ruby vintage. "Stuck himself with his own fouled needle,
did he?"

Berengar gratefully accepted a goblet from Rik, then
shook his head. "Not exactly. Master Durriken, and that's
where the tale begins to bear on why I asked you here.
Apparently he had been drinking heavily to get his courage
up and somehow managed to drink the poison he had pre-
pared. Justice, no doubt, but when they found him, they
also found the word 'Neal' traced in wine on the table."

Gena felt a shiver run down her spine. She sipped the
wine, letting the hearty, dry liquid wash the road dust from
her throat. "This was not an isolated incident?"

Berengar ruefully shook his head. "My ancestors imme-
diately assumed the union had been broken by this attempt
to kill them, so. they plotted against the Riverens them-
selves. A Fisher out to assassinate one of the Riverens
tripped and died when he fell down a broad staircase in the
Riveren manor. A servant attracted by the noise thought he
saw a shadowed figure moving at the head of the stairs, but
when he rushed up there, all he found was a tapestry
commemorating the union—complete with Neat's portrait
—fallen from the hooks that held it up. It's believed the
falling tapestry knocked the assassin down the stairs."

"Uncommon bad luck, or Neal's ghost is keeping his

86    Michael A. Stackpole

promises for him." Rik shrugged and leaned against the
back of Gena's chair. "I've no love for hauntings."

The count's chair creaked as he sat back in it. "Nor do
I. Over the last three centuries or so various members of
the Riveren or Fisher families have decided they knew how
to sever the knot that binds us, but they have been consid-
ered quite daft. A few died as a result of their plots, while
most of the rest abandoned their plans after particularly
vivid nightmares in which Neal himself warned them off."

He opened his arms. "With that sort of history, I'd
never even begin to consider repeating their folly were the
situation not so dire. For years and years the two families
have worked against each other, but only in very open and
appropriate ways for merchants. Predatory pricing, yes,
preying on each other's caravans or ships, no. It was a war,
but one fought with coin, not sword.

"This changed four years ago, and I am forced to act."

Gena set her goblet down on the small table at her right
hand. "What has transpired that could make you risk your
life against a ghost?"

"The Rrverens started trading with the Haladina. They
claim they have done this to civilize the outlanders and
earn protection for their own caravans. They neglect to
mention that the riches with which they secured their alli-
ance have led the Haladina again to raid through what was
once the empire. As my family does virtually all of its trad-
ing here in the south, we fall prey to these raiders. We have
protested to the Riverens that the Haladina they harbor in
Aurdon here act as spies for the bandits in the countryside,
but they ignore us."

Rik rested his hands on Gena's shoulders and gently
kneaded her muscles. Her quiet groan as his strong fingers
eroded the tightness half hid his comment to Berengar. "A
strike at Riveren allies, you think, would run afoul of
Neal's curse?"

"Especially if the Haladina were being housed on a
Riveren estate, for example, yes." Berengar tossed off the
last of his wine, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve.
"I think, though, I have a way to bring the curse to an
end. Neal said the union will remain until Wasp and
Cleaveheart sever it. I have it in mind to mount an expedi-


Once a Hero   87

te

tion to recover those two blades, then do the job as pre-
scribed by Neal himself."

"Clever plan, that." Rik returned to the sideboard, then
refilled Berengar's cup from an earthenware pitcher. He
turned to Gena, but she deflected him by laying her hand
over the mouth of her goblet.

Berengar drank, then leaned forward again, holding his
silver goblet in both hands between his knees. "I have tried
to leam as much as I can about Neal, but his legend is not
well remembered here. I must have a dozen different ver-
sions of his actions here in Aurdon, but barely a whisper
about him before or after. Tragedies do not play well here,
and the Dun Wolf is mostly remembered as a comical char-
acter in the Red Tiger's cycle of folktales and songs. For
this reason I need your expertise. Lady Genevera, and like
as not will need your skills, Master Dumken."

He looked up at her, his blue eyes wary. "Do the blades
Still exist? Is my plan viable?"

Gena closed her eyes for a moment and wished Rik had
returned to massaging her muscles. "You have asked two
questions, and I have no favorable reply to either at the
moment. It does seem logical that the blades could be used
to sever the knot and break the oath, but only if the words
have come down true and if Neal's intent is represented in
them. I do believe most stories agree on his oath, so that is
a beneficent omen. As to the other . . ." She shrugged
helplessly. "The ending of Neal's life is overshadowed by
his heroism and the tragedy. I will need time to remember
details, but I recall at least one of the blades survived his
last battle."

"The sword, Cleaveheart?"

She nodded to the Count. "That is my belief."

He nodded solemnly, drained his cup, and stood. "That
is something, then, and easily enough for now. I will leave
you. Servants will come to prepare for your baths and ad-
dress other needs you have. This evening, in celebration of
your victory, my father has prepared a formal banquet."

Gena's breath caught in her throat- "My lord, traveling
on horseback does not permit me to bring much in the way
of appropriate clothing with me."

"Of course not, no, it would not." He smiled easily,

88    Michael A. Stackpole

and Gena knew her protest had been anticipated long be-
fore she could voice it. "As best I could, from my memory,
I found a woman here who closely resembles you. My fam-
ily's seamstresses have prepared a gown or two that can be
fitted to you in an instant. They will come after you have
rested and made your ablutions."

Fists planted on his hips, he looked over at Durriken.
"As for you, my friend, I think you are nearly the size of
my late brother. I will have someone select suitable items
from his wardrobe, provided you do not mind wearing a
dead man's clothing?"

"As long as the boots do not pinch and his shade is not
as lively as Neal's, I would not refuse your generous offer."
Durriken bowed toward his host.

"Ah, another idea occurs to me." Berengar smiled, then
worked a silver and star sapphire ring off the smallest fin-
ger of his right hand. "The business with Waldo and your
flashdrakes has been gnawing at the back of my brain. I
would not doubt the story has been widely distributed,
even this quickly, for "Waldo is a notorious gossip when
wounded. My brother Nilus held my title before his death,
as well as many others. His love was a small holding that
encompassed Lake Orvir. For your time here I will make
you Lord Orvir, so no tongues will wag over your flash-
drakes or your escorting Lady Genevera."

Rik smiled as Berengar presented him the ring. The
small man fitted it on the middle finger of his left hand,
then ran the cuff of his right sleeve over the star sapphire
set in it. "I am in your debt."

"No, I am in yours." Berengar nodded curtly to Dur-
riken- "If this venture is successful, perhaps I will make the
appointment permanent- If you will excuse me." He bowed
again, then retreated from the room.

Durriken closed the door behind the count, then turned
to Gena. "I'm with you in this little task, though I'm not
looking forward to bearding a ghost."

"Neal was clean shaven." Gena flicked her eyes up,
then she smiled. "You could be ennobled by this."

Irritation and distaste flashed through Rik's brown
eyes, then he shrugged- "From a slave to slavemaster? I
don't think I will weather the transition well. Perhaps to-

Once a Hero   89

night will tell- At least tonight no one will be offended that
one of the Fair Race is escorted by a base barrow bandit."

Gena rose from her chair and stroked her right hand
softly against Rik's cheek. "There are nobles of the blood,
then nobles of the heart. You are the latter, and it is my
honor to appear anywhere on your arm."

The seamstresses Count Berengar had engaged to alter
clothing to fit Gena worked quickly and well, clucking and
cooing as they tucked the pale-blue satin gown at the waist,
ribs, and bosom. Cut with a low neckline and a ribbon-
laced front to draw it tight, the gown fit her like a second
skin through the bodice. She noticed that the gown, aside
from mildly restricting her ability to breathe, actually made
her breasts seem somewhat larger, which was no mean
feat, as Elven women tended away from the endowment of
their human counterparts.

"That will assuredly please Rik," she muttered to her-
self. She smoothed the cool fabric down to the top of her
hips with her hands, then let them brush against the satin
as the full skirts flared out and down to the floor. She took
a step forward, then turned quickly, pivoting around to
nod at the seamstresses as the dress molded itself to her
long legs. "It is magnificent. I just require one service more
of you."

The older, dumpling-cheeked woman smiled nervously.
"Yes, m'lady?"

"If you would be so kind, let the sleeves out?" Gena
tightened her muscles, and the fabric pulled taut over her
arms. "I fear my peregrinations have fostered more in the
way of hard than soft."

"The model for your gown, M'Lady Martina Fisher—a
distant cousin of the count's you see—rises at noon and
bathes in mare's milk!" The seamstress's apprentice—Gena
thought them enough alike to believe them mother and
daughter—spoke of this Martina with a hushed reverence.

The seamstress did not share her daughter's view of the
woman. "Softness comes from never having done a lick of
work in her life- Better she spent her time milking mares
than sitting in the milk of mares." She smiled up at Gena.

90    Michael A. Stackpole

"I will have this gown ready before m'lady has finished her

bath."

Once Gena had slipped out of the gown, the seamstress
left her daughter, Phaelis, to draw a bath for her. That
process ended up with Phaelis giving orders to other ser-
vants to roll a cask into the suite, then haul buckets of
water in to fill it. The addition of hot water made the bath
tepid, but after two weeks on the road it felt quite wel-
come. Had the water been any hotter, Gena knew, she
might have slipped off to sleep.

Phaelis apparently saw it as her sacred duty to make
sure that did not happen. At first she looked wounded
when Gena told her that she was fully capable of washing
herself, but she relented and allowed Phaelis to wash her
back and hair. In return the young woman regaled Gena
with stories about Lady Martina and the various swains
she set off against each other, most recently Lord Waldo
and Captain Floris.

"Which do you think she will ensnare?"

"Neither, m'lady, though the two of them won't know
that for a long time. She's cousin to them all, but like tends
to marry like in Aurdon, as long as they're not too close-
blooded." Phaelis sighed as she lathered a washing cloth
and applied it to Gena's shoulders. "I think she has herself
set on winning the count's heart, though he barely knows
she's alive."

Gena could understand how any woman would find
Count Berengar desirable. Tall and handsome, even with
the scar on his face, he had grace and intelligence in abun-
dance. A ferocious warrior, he commanded the respect of
other men, and that immediately set him apart from the
rest of the male population. Combined with his title and
fortune, it made him an attractive candidate for husband or
lover, and the competition among women to win him made
him yet that much more alluring.

She had seen it when they met five years before. They
had been introduced at a reception, and Gena had immedi-
ately sensed the hostility of the other women when the
count had asked her to join him in a dance. While she had
found him handsome and witty, she had taken no steps to
advance their relationship. A liaison between an Elven

Once a Hero   91

woman and a Human noble was almost expected, both by
Humans and the Elven oracles who had warned her of the
dangers of the world of Men. Because so many predicted
their relationship deepening, Gena rejected the possibility
out of hand, and Count Berengar had pressed no suit upon
her.

It occurred to her, as Phaelis doused her with a bucket
of water to rinse her hair, that her steadfast determination
to avoid falling into the most common of traps had left her
vulnerable to Durriken's charms. He had taken her off
guard by giving her the jewelry—which she knew had to
have been priceless—then asking for nothing in return. She
had pursued him to learn where he had obtained the pieces,
and his offer to help trace them back seemed natural given
his avocation.

The sylvanestii who had tried to educate her about the
outside world had been correct in pointing out that many
would be attracted to her if for no other reason than her
difference and exotic nature. Gena had discovered it was
quite easy to tell, almost at the instant of meeting, whether
or not she would ever allow a man into her bed. Few were
the men who made the list of potential lovers, and fewer
still were those she actually bedded. Berengar had made the
former list, but not the latter.

Durriken had made yet another list altogether. She
came to realize, as they traveled together, that he refrained
from intruding upon her because he wanted to preserve the
shell within which he lurked. Though she did not learn the
details until later, she knew his initial distance had been
born during the time he had spent as a mine slave in Ysk, a
time in which even his own body had not belonged to him.
That he was attracted to her cried out from every little
kindness he performed for her and the harsh way in which
he dealt with those who did not treat her with proper def-
erence.

After two months as traveling companions, Gena found
herself wanting to be his lover. They became lovers and
had grown even closer through that experience. Rik
opened up to her, sharing some of his life's experiences.
She knew he kept many of the darker moments locked up
inside himself, and even the bittersweet things he presented

92    Michael A. Stackpole

to her he softened with a laugh or an ironic comment.
Despite his reluctance to let her in all the way, she knew
she ioved him, and that realization opened a whole other
debate that she consciously ignored.

The seamstress returned with the gown just after Phae-
lis had toweled Gena dry and had begun to comb out her
hair. After donning the various petticoats and underskirts
that would help the gown retain its shape, Gena slipped
into the gown itself and found the alterations perfect. She
commented on the same to the delight of the seamstress.

Another servant, a woman of Phaelis's age yet more
graceful and forceful of bearing, arrived and ushered the
other two women out of the room. She brought with her a
wooden case, which, when opened on a small table to the
south side of the bedroom, was revealed to have a mirror
on the underside of the lid and a wide range of cosmetics in
the triple tier of trays contained below.

"Upon hearing of the foresight her son displayed in ar-
ranging for your gown. Duchess Beatrix thought you might
require some additional aid in supplying yourself with cos-
metics for this evening's festival. I am Noreen and have
been serving the duchess for six years now." Slender and
small, with long brown hair and quick brown eyes, the
woman looked at Gena, then at the box, and back again.
"Normally I do for her with my paints what nature itself
has done for you. Pity we are still in the winter season, for
the colors are too cold and severe for one as beautiful as
you."

Noreen lifted the three trays out of the box and from
the bottom drew a sheet. She draped it over Gena and the
gown, then gently tucked it in, leaving her long neck and
the upper half of her bosom exposed. Noreen selected a
powder puff from the case, dusted it with white powder,
then gently applied it to Gena's bare flesh. Once Noreen
had moved it from the vicinity of her eyes, Gena looked at
her reflection in the mirror and shivered as the golden color
of her skin succumbed to the white powder.

"M'lady has lovely large eyes." Noreen carefully
painted a black line around them, letting the curved lines
from the lower lids arc up toward Gena's temples. She then
applied a light blue powder to the lower half of Gena*s

Once a Hero   93

cheekbones and brushed it back up to blend with her hair-
line. More blue dusted the hollow of her throat and her
eyelids, then Noreen rouged her lips.

As the woman produced a brush from the bottom of
the case and began to work on her hair, Gena smiled at her
own reflection in the mirror. The cosmetics had sharpened
her features, accentuating a natural difference between
Men and Elves, and enough of her skin tone made it
through the white to prevent her being taken for a walking
corpse. She secretly wondered if the women of Aurdon
chose to make themselves look Elven out of some hidden
desire to be more than they were, or if changing styles had
simply come around to the point where vulpine decoration
just happened to be appropriate when she came to visit.

Noreen pulled Gena's hair back into a thick braid, then
folded that up onto itself and secured it with two silver
needles. "There you are, m'lady. I do not think my minis-
trations have dulled your beauty."

Gena smiled. "They have enhanced it."

"You are most kind." Noreen replaced her brush and
the trays and shut the case. She carefully pulled the sheet
free, then looked up behind Gena. "Evening, m'lord."

Gena turned, half expecting to see Count Berengar, and
saw Durriken entering the room on the other side of the
bed. He wore a long gray woolen tunic, edged with silver,
that came down to his knees. Beneath that he wore a navy-
blue hose and dark-grey slippers that had elaborately
curled toes and a small bell set at each heel. On his head
perched a blue beret with a silver feather in it that matched
the silver belt tied around his waist.

She started to smile, then covered her mouth with her
hand to stifle a laugh as Durriken glared at her. He looked
miserable, and she knew he would have jumped at the sug-
gestion of riding away from Aurdon or at least slipping out
of their clothes and avoiding the festival entirely.

Noreen nodded. "My lord won't mind my saying he
wears those clothes better than Count Nilus ever did. Quite
handsome a figure you are, sir."

Rik smiled momentarily. "You are most kind, ma'am."

Noreen curtsied. "Evening, m'lady, m'lord."

94    Michael A. Stackpole

When the door closed behind her, Rik scowled heavily.
"Bells on the shoes?"

"I believe they are meant to remind people of the happy
time when the winter will be no more." Gena shook her
head. The bells on the shoes had to be especially galling to
Rik, because his profession so relied on stealth for its suc-
cessful practice. Given Waldo's animosity toward him, Rik
had to be feeling persecuted by circumstance.

His scowl dissolved into a feral expression of forbidden
delight. "If Waldo had these bells put on my shoes on pur-
pose, what he owns, I will own."

"I do not think that is a very good idea, my Lord
Orvir."

His head came up at the use of the title- "True, I would
have to do something more befitting my station. Of course,
that could be almost anything." He pulled off his ring and
crossed the room to where she stood- "I don't know if
Berengar knows about this, but it is an interesting trick.
This is a, genuine slapdeath ring."

"What is that?"

"Watch." Holding the ring between the thumb and
forefinger of his right hand, he twisted the thin cylinder of
scrollwork around the base of the sapphire to the left. Smil-
ing, he flicked the gem up, exposing a small compartment
in the ring. "Barely large enough to hold a pinch of gold
dust, yes?"

Gena nodded. "Hardly useful for a hiding place, as a
highway man would likely take the ring as well as a
purse."

"Agreed. Now watch." He flipped the gem back into
place and turned the cylinder back to the right. He contin-
ued twisting it after it had locked the gemstone down, and
stopped when he apparently met resistance. "There."

"I don't see anything."

Rik winked. "You're not supposed to see anything—
slapdeath." He rotated the ring so she could see the section
that would lie hidden toward the palm of his hand. Ex-
tending upward at a shallow angle toward his thumb was
the tip of a hollow needle barely an eighth of an inch long.

"That ring, if it held poison . . ."

"A pat on the back, a gentle caress, a slap across the

Once a Hero   95

face, and someone dies." Rik retracted the needle with a
twist on the scrollwork. "It looks as if Nilus had a reason
to expect trouble. As this is a weapon wetl suited for use on
one's familiars, he expected that trouble from someone
close to him."

Gena nodded as she fastened a silver-leaf pendant
around her neck. "I wonder if Berengar knows the secret of
his brother's ring."

"And I wonder if Nilus had other secrets." Rik smiled
wryly. "I think that is something I may try to find out."

"But not tonight."

"No?"

"No." Gena shook her head as she slipped her hand
into the hollow of Rik's left elbow. "Tonight they are hav-
ing a celebration in our honor. We will go and act as befits
our station. And after that, provided you are willing to
remove that ring, I will see if Lord Orvir is a better lover
than a certain thief whose company I greatly enjoy."

x

Chapter 6

The Reason for
Leaving

_x

Late Summer

Reign of the Red Tiger Year 1

Five Centuries Ago

My Thirty-fifth Year

Though she stepped light as a cat bent on mischief, the
faint crackle of straw being crushed underfoot betrayed
Yelena's approach. Though I do not often wake quickly, I
did so this time, with the faint tendrils of unease that had
wracked my slumber evaporating slowly. Her steps lacked
the furtive urgency of someone on a mission of mayhem, so
I let my fists unknot beneath the woolen blanket, and I
opened my eyes.

A warm smile brightened her heart-shaped face, and
her black hair all but glowed from careful brushing. "I
trust, my Lord, you slept well?"

"I have greatly enjoyed the hospitality of the River-
avens here, Lady Yelena."

"So I assumed when you slept away the day without
snoring."

"I did?" I rubbed a hand over my face. I recalled having
trouble getting to sleep because of all the dogs barking

Once a Hero   97

outside, but once they stopped, the weariness of the jour-
ney hammered me into unconsciousness.

I returned Yelena's smile politely, so as not to offend
her, and to make amends for any offense I might have
given the night before. She had been appointed by Festus to
take me back to the River Raven longhouse and provide
me suitable accommodations for the night, while Aarundel
was made the Fishers' guest. Though fifteen years my ju-
nior by the most generous tally of her age, she had seemed
willing to share the pallet to which I had been directed. My
refusal, which I based on my being road weary, battle sore,
and a notorious snorer, had been accepted even though I
was thinking she had seen it as a lie.

"You did indeed, my lord Neal." She half turned back
toward the center of the longhouse and, with a sharp,
snapped twist of her hand, started two servants wrestling a
heavy oaken cask over toward where I lay. "Your Steel
Pack arrived two hours ago and is encamped down by the
river. The Elf has seen to their care and ordered no one to
disturb you. I only disobeyed because the sun is but an
hour from slumber, and the festival that you ordered will
then begin."

I worked my left arm around, bringing my elbow to my
breastbone, and heard my shoulder pop. Yelena's eyebrows
betrayed her surprise at the sound, but I had become well
used to hearing it. The new twinge in my ribs reminded me
of the Haladin ambush, but the pain was not as sharp as I
would have expected. Though I would have preferred to
have been awakened when the Steel Pack made Aurium, I
was thinking that Aarundel had not been wrong in letting
me sleep. Though I did not heal as swiftly as I had in my
youth, I still did heal, and the sleep had helped a great deal.

Yelena smiled, her brown eyes lit with a devilish fire. "I
thought my lord would wish Co bathe before the festival.
The Elf had things sent around from your personal train, in
order that you be suitably attired for this evening." As the
servants hauled buckets of steaming water from a cauldron
near the central fire, Yelena drew the curtains that isolated
the small area in which we stood from the rest of the build-


ing.

The longhouse itself looked to be four times as long as

98    Michael A Stackpole

it was wide, and two sets of pillars running the length of it
split the width into thirds. On either side, up against the
exterior wall, rough planking framed small stalls barely
over nine yards square. The planking rose to six feet or so,
which cut off most sight and filtered some sounds from one
stall to the next, but hardly made an attempt at privacy.
From the grunts and giggles, gawfaws and moans I could
hear around me, the Riveraven Clan did not feel the lack,
and to be honest, after months in the field, I felt closed in.

Yelena's closeness accentuated that feeling. In the dark
of the night, when she had been my hostess, her invitation
to enjoy the hospitality of the Ravens had been at her uncie
Festus's behest. He had seen value in having me bed a
woman of his clan and like as not thought it might win him
some advantage or concession or a chance to renegotiate
his son's position in the bargain struck the night before.
Yelena had taken the rejection easily, likely pleased that her
uncle's strategy had failed.

Her presence here now bespoke her coming on her own
behalf, and it did not greatly surprise me. She did not seem
the sort of woman who would pursue me to prove herself
desirable—the intelligence in her eyes had me thinking she
knew her beauty made her a prize. Even had her vanity
been pinked by my refusal to let her share the straw-strewn
pallet and thin woolen blanket, she would not have re-
turned to salve her wound- Doing that would have con-
ceded a battle to me, and in Yelena I sensed no concession
and damned little compromise.

If she had come for herself, she had come to get what I
represented. It wasn't the pleasure of bedding, I felt fair
certain, because aside from one rather bawdy ballad about
me and the nuns in the convent in Esquihir, I had no repu-
tation for being a bold or romantic lover. While not above
being flattered by a woman's appreciation for my meagre
abilities at loveplay, I'm not a ram that wants to mount
every available ewe in hopes she will sing my praises after-
ward.

To Yeiena I represented what visitors to my father's
court in the Roclaws had been for me: a window onto the
rest of the world. I was what existed, what lived and
breathed outside Aurium. I had defied the city's clan lead-


Once a Hero   99

ers, bearding them in their own den, and if I could do that,
then I could certainly take her with me when I left. I did
not think she saw me as a lover with whom she would
remain for all time, but just someone with whom she could
stay until she won her release from the city of her birth.

All the while I thought this out, Yelena busied herself
with supervising the servants filling the wooden tub. She
diligently tested the water for warmth and directed the ser-
vants to bring water in sufficient quantities of specific tem-
peratures in accord with some arcane formula that at last
produced a satisfactory smile on her face. Accepting a
small unguent jar and a thick towel from the last servant,
she drew the curtain completely shut-
Ignoring the mild laughter from the people in the center
of the longhouse, she smiled and waved me toward the
bath. Her husky whisper conveyed a multitude of mes-
sages. "Your bath awaits, my lord. As none of our servanrs
would be satisfactory to you, I offer myself as your atten-
dant."

Raising myself up on my elbows, I narrowed my eyes.
"Do you know what you are offering, lass?"

She broadened her smile and nodded.

"And do you know why?" My question caught her un-
awares for a moment. Before she could reply, I pressed
further. "Do you want to know why I'll be refusing you?"

Yelena hesitated, then her smile slackened. "It should
have been obvious to me."

I shook my head and threw back the blanket. "There's
no reason you could have known, so don't be thinking
what you're thinking now." I stood, naked, with my joints
popping and cracking like Dreel gnawbones. I saw her eyes
widen, and looking down, I knew the purple bruise on the
left side of my chest had been what caught her initial atten-
tion. As her focus opened up and she took a good look at
me, one hand rose to cover her mouth.

"My lord, you . . . you . . ."

Aside from being a bit more furry than most flatlanders,
as well as taller and more thickly muscled, the difference
between me and the other males she'd likely seen in a simi-
lar state of nudity came in terms of my scars. Witch women
and shamans, hedge-wizards and physickers, are all well

100    Michael A. Stackpole

able to close cuts and smooth gashes so as to leave no trace
of a scar. Unlike me, the only thing most men took away
from a fight was a tall tale.

I smiled to ease her distress and crossed to the tub. I
sank myself into it, having to scrunch down a bit and bring
my knees up out of the water, but it covered me to
midchest and felt warm and inviting. "My compliments,
Lady Yelena." I took a small cake of soap from a shelf near
my toes and began to work it over my left arm.

"How is it, my lord, that the Dun Wolf is so worried
and marked?"

I shrugged. "Well, now, this slice here, on my shoulder,
I got from Tashayul when he meant to be killing me twenty
years ago. And this one, the cross there above my left knee,
that was a Haladin arrow I won near seven years past in
the first battle I fought under the Red Tiger's banner." Lift-
ing my left arm and leaning to the right, I exposed my hip.
"See that tear there? That was from the Dreel."

"You have so many scars, my Lord, yet there are
ways ..."

"I've collected a tale with each one, my Lady, and in
another thirty years I'll be delivering an accounting to one
of the Consiiliarii." I smiled. " 'Tis not much as ambition
goes, but it is a goal worth striving for."

She kept the horror in her eyes out of her whispered
question. "And these scars—they have left you . . . un-
able . . . which is why you refuse me?"

"No, lass, I am able, which is why I must refuse you." 1
rinsed my left hand, then gently cupped her jaw in it. The
truth, I was thinking, would only pique her interest, not
dispel it. That was good, because I'd never been inclined to
share the truth with anyone. No one would have believed it
of me, and I knew all the protests concerning its veracity
would only cause folks to doubt it all the more. So, for her,
a bit of a lie.

"How much of the Eldsaga do you know, lass?"

"I know some of the songs. *The Rape of Lucenzia' and
*The Razing of Malchalach* are the most sung here- The
songs are old and well remembered, which is why you are
here and the Elf went with the Fishers." Irritation sent a

Once a Hero   101

tremor through her, and fear another after it. "Why do you
ask, my lord?"

I soaped my face, then rinsed it off in a great spray of
water before answering. "The songs you cite mark Elven
crusades that destroyed cities and provinces, changing the
very map of Skirren. The slaughter will never be forgotten,
but the reason the Elves launched their crusade already has
been." I leaned back and let her soap my knees. "You see,
the reason the Elves left Cygestolia was because the people
of the Roclaws had been bound together by a leader who
started nibbling away at Barkol. His dreams went far be-
yond Barkol, of course, but to the sylvanii his dreams were
night terrors."

Had Aarundel been there to hear me recount history, he
might have objected to some characterizations, but he
could have pronounced the rede of it true. "The Elven Le-
gions rode into the Roclaws and scattered the tribes. I'm
ifainking they likely wanted us all dead, but the mountains
have many valleys and dales, and territories that the
Dwarvenfolk claim as their own. While they granted us no
succor, nor did they let the Elves hunt in their domains, so
the people of the Roclaws survived.

"But now, you see, that in the days when the tribes had
been together, many a love affair had blossomed. When we
fled, we fled as tribes, not knowing if lovers lived or died.
So among our people there arose a custom of waiting a
year and a month, a week and a day and an hour before
considering ourselves well and truly separated from a
lover.

"Over the years many have been the embellishments to
this tradition—a married couple who remove themselves
from each other's company for that time are divorced and
' free, and mourning for a lost love lasts that long."

"And you arc in mourning?"

The sympathy in her voice made me regret the lie. "I
am, fair Yelena. I had a message from my brother, and in it
he told me the woman I loved had died. Was the falsethaw
fever and not caught in time." I fell silent for as long as
I thought right, then managed a weak smile. "The sting of
it is mostly gone, but you remind me of her enough
that . . ."

102    Michael A. Stackpole

Yelena sat back on her heels. "Forgive me, my lord, if I
had known . . ."

I shook my head. "You make me mindful of the good
things, lass. Were I younger, and this summer next winter,
I'd not be riding alone from Aurium."

That pleased her, and her reaction banished the kernel
of regret taking root in my heart. "My lord, is one in
mourning allowed to enjoy himself at a festival? Is he al-
lowed to dance?"

I winked at her and smiled. "Oddly enough, the custom
is he can only dance with a bath attendant."

"Ah, then it is well you keep to your customs, my Lord
Neal, well indeed."

Yelena abandoned me when I emerged from the bath
and dried myself off. I found the clothing that Aarundel
had sent for me and recognized none of it, which meant he
had bought it new in the Aurium bazaar. Aarundel prefers
to avoid places with too many humans he does not know—
the exception being his placement in the midst of an enemy
formation. At the same time he has a sharp sense of what is
appropriate in conduct and dress, and this he impresses
upon me whenever the chance to do so comes about. The
fact that we had acted the bloody-handed mercenaries the
night before meant we would have to be equally gracious
at the festival, and I assumed the red tunic he had supplied
for me would help do that.

His willingness to brave the bazaar mirrored my own
willingness to keep Yelena at arm's length. As I mentioned
before, I am not a ram looking to mount a herd, but nei-
ther am I celibate or tike-gender attracted. While I enjoy
the company of women, I am also aware of Aarundel's
isolation from sylvanestii, for they are more rare outside
Cygestolia than mountain women are outside the Roclaws,
Making matters more complicated is the Elven prohibition
against coupling with women or Reithressa.

I dressed quickly despite the ache in my ribs. Though I
had no intention of going armed to the festival, I did home
Wasp and Cleaveheart in their respective scabbards and
looped my weapons'-belt over my shoulder. Emerging from

Once a Hem   103

my stall, I found Lady Yelena dressed in a gown that flat-
tered her slender figure and accentuated her bosom. She
dipped her left hand through die crook of my right arm
without saying a word.

I could tell from her smile that while she might respect
the tale I had told her earlier, she would make my choice to
honor tradition delidously difficult. "My Lady, you are
quite beautiful this evening, eclipsing your earlier beauty,
I*m thinking." I let my voice cany enough to spawn giggles
from others in the longhouse, and Yelena accepted die
compliment with a gentle bow of her head.

The sun had not set by the time we emerged from the
longhouse, so I got a chance to orient myself concerning
die town's internal geography. The iegislatonum stood on
a hill above a green square with a statue raised in the center
of it. East and west of that square stood two longhouses—
one for the Fishers and the other for the Riveravens.
Spreading back from them in a rough wedge were other,
smaller houses and buildings of related clans and servants.
To the south, in the direction of the rivers, other homes,
shops, and warehouses bridged the gap between the clan
sectors and the wharves. North of the legislatorium the
buildings appeared more ramshackle and less permanent,
and I had the feeling that somewhere in that transient sec-
tor was where I would find my company.

The square itself had been transformed from a muddy
flat to something far more in keeping with a celebration,
Brightly colored tents, well patched and road stained, had
been set up in a haphazard pattern to form a rough perime-
ter around the square. I was thinking some traveling show
had entered the town at a lucky moment, but given the
Haladin activity in the area, it seemed likely they had been
north of the legislatorium, waiting for a good time to
travel.

Interior of the tents I saw carts and stalls of the sort I
imagined would be found in the bazaar. Their hasty trans-
planting narrowed the area near the statue, but still left
enough room for a good crowd. Musicians had set up at
the base of the statue and looked to be a mix of the road
minstrels and folks belonging to Aurium itself. In tuning
their instruments they sounded like a herd of cats fighting

104    Michael A. Stackpole

on a bed made of bellowing walruses, but I was thinking
the sound would resolve itself into something dance-
spawning quite quickly.

I'd gotten a step and a half from the longhouse when
the Dreel slid his shaggy red-gray body from a hollow be-
neath the building. He crawled up out of a hole around
which he had placed fresh-killed dogs' skulls like merlons
and paced beside me. Yelena started when she caught sight
of him past my left shoulder, but forced a yawn. I casually
handed him my swordbelt. "If I need this, you will fetch it
to me. Meanwhile, try not to kill anything." Shijef flashed
his fangs at me, so I added, "Be trying real hard not to kill
anything."

Yelena shivered. "You have scars from a Dreel bite, yet
you keep one with you as a pet?"

"Oh, the scars are from that Dreel's bite." I shrugged.
"Besides, he's not a pet, he is a slave."

"Why would you want a Dreel as a slave?"
"I'm thinking you have a point—they're not good for
much." I forced the image of the bouncing head from my
mind. "I did not have much choice. His Dreelband was
raiding a village one winter. We had a contest, he and I,
and he lost, so he became my slave."

"Better that than the other way around."
I smiled. "I'm thinking I'd not have been a slave- Din-
ner, more likely."

Yelena took the lead as we entered the square and
paraded me around like a groom leading a prize horse. I
played my part, taking a bit of joy from the green-eyed
glances shot in my direction by local men who doubtless
had pondered ways to woo her. I wished the men no ill, but
I was thinking one night of discomfort might spur them on
to act. Part of me pitied any man who thought Yelena
would become his chattel, but there had to be someone in
Aurium who could be her match in spirit and mind.

As dusk passed into night, torches were lit and the or-
chestra had appointed a leader. Both Festus and Childeric
made brief speeches about the union of their families. A
priest, Jistani by the cut of his hair, said the words that
needed saying; then the musicians struck up a tune, and the
wedded couple engaged in a stately dance. I'd seen it per-

Once a Hero   105

formed more formally otherwhens, but seldom with more
sincerity- It seemed as if both Rufus and Ismere had deter-
mined to defy their families by clinging together. If their
offspring were as tough-minded, I was thinking, the union
might well last a long time.

Yelena pressed me to dance when the music shifted to
something more lively. Quick and light as she was, she
managed to keep her tiny feet from beneath mine during
the Centisian turn. The players then struck up a Kaudian
reel, which I forced her through and showed her that speed
in battle can translate elsewise into more pacifistic pursuits.

Our scores tied at a dance even, we agreed to let the
third dance—a complicated Centisian walking step with
twirls and bows and hop-skips—decide who was better. I
kept up close to her level of performance until the spin
right before the hop-skip then bow at the end of the dance.
At that point the man next to me accidently smacked me in
the chest with his hand, prompting my bruised ribs to re-
port on their state of health.

I worked my way through the last two sets of the dance,
then withdrew from the crowd as a young man whisked
Yelena away into the swirl of an old quickstep. Keeping a
smile on my face, and my left arm clamped down to protect
my ribs, I headed to the outer edge of the crowd and
started looking for Aarundel. Under normal circumstances
finding him in a crowd was easy—both of us were tall
enough to be visible over most other people.

I wandered halfway around the circle, then spotted him
up at the top of the steps of the legislatorium. I joined him,
plucking at the shoulder of my tunic as I did so. "A red
tunic? I'm the Dun Wolf, not the Red Tiger, my friend."

"Red is heroic." The Elf shook his head. "Dun )ust
looks dirty and is not festive at all."

"Your sartorial guidance is appreciated." I looked back
down on the varicolored throng pulsing and weaving in
time with the music. "Hard to believe Aurium almost tore
itself apart last evening."

"Humans are quick to anger, yet quicker to distrac-
tion." Aarundel's dark eyes watched the crowd, then
flicked toward me. "Our men have been told to be on their

106    Michael A. Stackpole

best behavior this evening. They were warned about every-
thing from diseases to slapdeath rings. . . .**

I frowned. "I'm not thinking they have to worry about
ringbites here. Polston, perhaps, but this place?"

"Neal, with the Fishers and Riveravens, the tools of
treachery will soon be available here, if they are not al-
ready."

"You have a point.**

Aarundel bowed his head in my direction. "Drogo
brought word from the Red Tiger. The Haladin forces have
abandoned the siege at Polston and seem to be withdraw-
ing to behind the Kaudian mountains. Sture is pursuing
them, but he is under orders to let them flee if they do not
make war on the mountain freestate."

I arched an eyebrow. "So they are running in the direc-
tion of the Reithrese homeland?"

"Or their own deserts, affirmative. Beltran has decided
to winter in Polston despite Sture's urging a strike north to
liberate Irtysh."

"That explains why Sture is off chasing Haladina away
from Beltran and Irtysh."

"I assumed you would notice that. The Red Tiger is
going to use his armies to help bring in the harvests, which
should endear him to the people. It will also prevent the
Reithrese from sending their tax collectors in." The Elf
grinned cautiously. "While there will be battles next sum-
mer to contest control of Centisia, there is no doubt who
owns it for this year."

"Did Drogo bring orders for us?" As I asked the ques-
tion, I sorted the likely missions to come with a positive
answer. I put being allowed to raid far into Reithrese terri-
tory at the top of my list, and far below it I placed being
called down to Polston for strategy sessions. While 1 ad-
mire and very much like Bellrau, the Red Tiger, the
thought of spending more than a month in a port city like
Polston made me shiver. The fact that Sture was certain to
return to Polston for the winter made me shiver as if I had
falsethaw fever.

"Beltran desires us to remain here in Aurium and recon-
noiter into Ispar, even advancing as far as the plains before

Once a Hero   107

Jarudin. He wants the Reithrese to believe his next thrust
will be to the heart of their empire and the capital."

I nodded because that made sense. The Man-force fight-
ing the Reithrese relied on mobility and speed to defeat
the Reithrese hosts, A feint at Jarudin would make the
Reithrese reinforce it, expending supplies and trapping
forces in the capital. If we struck elsewhere—preferably a
place where they had only Haladina for defense—we could
hurt them badly.

Beltran understood the problems of controlling an em-
pire and was using them against the Reithrese. While Sture
was probably correct that Irtysh was ready to revolt and
come over, it was too far from the freestate to be able to
have us defend it. And Sture's patriotic feelings notwith-
standing, Irtysh was less valuable than even a town like
Aurium.

I knew I might be a bit harsh in my dismissal of Irtysh,
for Sture's troops fought well, but Sture and I did not get
along at all. He found out, after I had formed the Steel
Pack and joined the Red Tiger, that Aarundel and I had
seen the battle in which his father, Duke Harsian, had
fallen. He somehow decided that it was my fault that his
father had died and his nation lay in thrall to the Reithrese.

Aside from the fact that the Roclawzi and Irtyshites had
never been allies, with the Reithrese on the doorstep to the
Roclaws, there was no way I could have convinced any
Roclawzi to join me in fighting in Irtysh, even if I felt that
was a good idea. The fact that I didn't think Irtysh was
important enough to be liberated, and had no difficulty in
voicing this opinion in front of Sture, meant that Takrakor
and I would be good friends before Sture and I ever ex-
changed a civil word.

Down below I caught a flash of the blue gown Yelena
was wearing. "So we will have to spend the winter here?" I
frowned, trying to remember exactly what I had said to
her. "I'm thinking that won't be a good thing."

Aarundel's face brightened as he picked up on the dis-
tress in my voice. "She is quite attractive, Neal. You could
suffer worse than to have her warm your winter nights."

"Aye, my friend, but there are complications. Not being
as glib as you, my lies do not allow me much room to run."

108   Michael A. StackpoU

The Elf laughed. "Provide her a quote from the Codex
Mercenarius that will remedy the situation."

"For a book you invented last night, I'm thinking we're
working it hard." I shook my head. "I tried to match your
wit by inventing a Roclawzi tradition that had me in
mourning for a lost love. While celibate now, I could have
taken her in the winter, I said."

"Arrange for your brother to send you a letter saying
the !over who had been presumed lost has been found

again."

"Ah, but I told Yelena my brother had sent a note say-
ing the woman had died of fever."

"You terminated her? What a cruel thing to do." He
gave me a look of Elven disdain, but overplayed it to the
point of absurdity, then began to laugh.

I gave Aarundel a hard stare. "It's all well and good for
you to laugh, my friend, but you've not got a woman set-
ting her cap for you. While she is comely and smart, she is
not the one for me."

"Not 'the one'?" Aarundel shook his head. "You listen
to the bards who sing too much of romance, Neal. The idea
of a True Love is not realistic."

"Emotions and reality combining—now there, I'm
thinking, is an interesting idea." I folded my arms slowly.
"So how is it that you can have your Marta, and I'm being
denied my True Love?"

I could see he wanted to dismiss my riposte as some-
thing I couldn't possibly understand, but he conquered his
reflex and opened his hands. "What we have is vitamor—it
goes beyond any Man-thought of True Love. Moreover,
Marts and I have known each other for over a century by
your reckoning. We have seen each other in triumph and
defeat, adulation and dejection. Even if examined in hu-
man terms, our courtship would have lasted a decade—a
time in which most humans could have consummated and
dissolved a half-dozen marriages, each with progeny as

well."

I could have protested his example, but I saw no reason
for punishing his attempt at explaining things to me. "Just
so you know, my friend, 1 do not begrudge you your
vitamor. I'm just hoping someday I will be as lucky as you.

Once a Hero    109

Maybe after the Red Tiger wins his little war, I'll be free to
find my Marta, and the Elven Councils will let you marry
yours."

Aarundel's eyes focused distantly. I had seen that ex-
pression before, and I put it down to times when he was
thinking on her and she on him likewise- Somehow they
managed this momentary communion no matter the dis-
tance between them, and Aarundel always seemed the bet-
ter in spirits and humor for the time spent enraptured.

A smile spread across his face. "When you find her,
Neal, you will know it instantly. Your heart will beat
faster, your stomach will clench. It is as absorbing as bat-
tle-madness, but in reverse, because it drives you toward
creation, not destruction."

I shared his smile. "I envy you, Aarundel, and Marta as
well. If ever the council lets you wed, I'd be proud to stand
beside you."

"I shall demand it, Neal." We clasped hands and shook
firmly, cementing more tightly a friendship unthinkable by
anyone who had heard the Eldsaga sung.

A scream from down below killed the music. Releasing
Aarundei's hand, I turned to face the square, but Shijef
eclipsed my view of it. He thrust my swordbelt against my
chest and let his talons tickle the bruise beneath my tunic.
"This blade you will need."

The fact that he had presented me the sword in time
with the scream came as no testament to his speed. The
Dreel had doubtlessly smelled the trouble brewing below,
but felt no reason to warn me. After all, I had not asked for
warning. Just the return of Cleaveheart when I would need
it. In the little game we played, he had won a round.

Stepping aside, I took in the now-silent square and felt
glacier-melt run through my insides. A dark wedge of ar-
mored riders moved slowly and deliberately to drive itself
into the circle of people below. Their huge warhorses
shouldered men and women aside as if they were stalks of
grain in a wheat field. I saw Festus and Childeric impose
themselves directly in the line of march, but the riders
pressed on through them and their protests before execut-
ing a sharp turn toward the north.

Aarundel and I remained in place as they came toward

110    Michael A. Stackpole

the legislatorium. Though I had never before seen the style
of armor they wore, I knew from the riders' size and the
strength of their mounts that they all were Elves. That fact
had not been lost on Aarundel, which explained why his
race tightened. It also explained why silence ruled the
night, with the exception of some gentle sobbing.

I looped my swordbelt over my left shoulder, leaving
Cleaveheart''s hilt hanging breast-high from beneath my left
arm. I tried to affect an air of bored indifference, but it was
not easy. As much as I wanted to deny them the victory,
the Elven riders were impressive. Memories of Eldsaga
nightmares skittered icily up and down my spine.

The armor they wore, white clearly practical, had been
designed for ceremony. It had been styled with hooks and
barbs and horns that contributed to their fierce aspect- The
decorations looked odd for the handful of heartbeats it
took for me to identify the problem; then my sense of
unease doubled. Instead of being modeled on an animal's
antlers—the way most human warriors would want it—the
armor's twists and curves had been taken from wind-
warped tree limbs and gnarled roots capable of crushing
stone through inexorable and inexhaustible pressure.

The Elves, their armor proclaimed, had the luxury of
time with which to destroy their enemies. They needed not
adopt the symbols of predators nor usurp the weapons ani-
mals shed to make themselves more powerful, just as they
had moved with careful and deliberate speed through the
crowd below, so, loo, could they leisurely slaughter their
foes. The Eldsaga had made that very clear, and these Elves
had no intention of letting anyone who saw them forget it.

The lead rider stopped at the base of the stairs, his eyes
level with ours- Shijef started to creep forward, but I
grabbed the scruff of his neck and restrained him. He
grumbled and flashed fangs at me, but remained in place-
He subvocalized something he knew irritated Blackstar,
then followed it with a satisfied growl when the lead
horse's nostril's flared.

The lead rider, his identity hidden by the full helm he
wore, looked over at Aarundel through the cross-slit in his
visor. "Aarundel Imperator, salus!"

Aarundel's head came up, his face implacable. "Speak

Once a Hero   111

in the common tongue. Neal Custos Sylvanii knows some
of our language, but he is not fluent."

"I am not come to converse with him, Imperator."

"But I will inform him of all you say, so I direct you to
obviate the necessity of translation."

"As you will it, Imperator. I am to convey the felicita-
tions of the Consilliarii. Your nuptial petition has been
considered and approved. We are the Lansorii Honorari
sent to conduct you to Cygestolia for the ceremony. We are
to leave immediately."

As much as I knew that news had to have excited
Aarundel, I marveled at his ability to keep his emotions
hidden. "Neal and I, and the Dreel, will be ready to ride
with you in the morning."

The lead horse shook its head as the rider's grip on the
reins slackened momentarily. "We are to conduct you
alone, Imperator. With all due respect to the Custos
Sylvanii, his presence was not mentioned. And we were
ordered to leave immediately."

Aarundel's slight shoulder shift was something I had
seen many times and marked his absolute determination
not to retreat from his position. "I am an Imperator; I
travel when / will it. As the groom I have the right to bring
to my wedding those companions with whom I enjoy fra-
ternity. Forget any attempt at imposing your will on me,
Lansor. Those who gave you this mission and promised
rewards if I returned alone and quickly merely meant to
make the impossible seem possible and defeat seem palat-
able."

His dark eyes narrowed as his chin came up. "Though I
need not explain myself to you, Lansor, I have reason for
wishing to delay my departure. You doubtless refused to
mark the celebration through which you rode, but it is in
honor of nuptials uniting the two largest clans in Aurium. I
was invited to attend, and attend I shall."

Aarundel hesitated for a moment, then let a grin slowly
twist his mouth up at the corners. I had no idea what he
had in mind, but I cringed inside for the honor guard sent
to fetch him home nonetheless. "As your arrival has dis-
rupted this ceremony, I will require a service of you. I think

112    Michael A. Stackpole

it is fitting that we dance for the couple the way others will
dance at my wedding."

The lead rider stiffened with a clatter-clang of epaulets
on his armor. "Imperator, there are some things that
should not be ... made vulgar."

"The dance will be dishonored only if you do not per-
form honorably, Lansor." Aarundel waved the guards
away. "Hobble your horses and remove your armor. You
are guests and shall conduct yourselves as same. Your
honor, my honor, depends upon it."

I remained silent as they reined themselves around to
the rear of the legtslatorium to dismount and shell them-
selves, though I did let Shijef skulk on behind them. When
the Elves had disappeared from sight, I turned toward
Aarundel. "Do you actually think they will let me ride with
you tomorrow?"

He nodded solemnly. "After tonight they will be so
anxious to be well rid of Aurium, they would let Takrakor
ride with us. The Consilliarii's reaction to your arrival in
Cygestolia will be something else entirely."

"No matter, my friend." I slapped him on the back.
"You can't siege a city until you have arrived at it. To
attend your wedding, I'd even brave another visit to Jam-
maq."

"Thank you for being willing to undertake the trek in
the face of hostility." We both started down toward the
square. "Let us just hope the reception you get does not
make you think you have returned to Jammaq."

Chapter 7

The Short Ride

-X

Early Spring
A.R. 499
The Present

The celebration in honor of their victory over the Haladina
struck Genevera as less of a festival than a phenomenon.
From the very start, when she appeared at the top of a
grandiose sweep of marble stairs and was announced to the
assembly, she felt detached from everything. The music
rang in her ears, as did the applause from the people below,
but both failed to reach inside her. She did not quite feel on
display as much as she felt she had entered a contest, but it
was a contest which she had no interest in winning.

She put part of the distance down to Rik's obvious dis-
comfort over the whole situation. Though the chamberlain
announced him as Lord Orvir, Waldo's wagging tongue
had clearly been at work. The shock at hearing that title
used quickly faded into clucking and whispers. Gena felt a
tremor run through Rik's armi then felt him relax as he let
out a chuclcle. "Fools ridicule what they should fear."

Gena recognized the tone in his voice immediately and
gave his forearm a squeeze with her left hand. "Pity them,

114    Michael A. Stackpole

Rik, for being creatures who allow themselves to be
swayed by Waldo."

He looked up at her sideways, a feral light burning in
his dark eyes; then he smiled and it died. "Punishing the
flock for the shepherd's sin is unnecessary, agreed."

The staircase they descended worked alt the way across
the rectangular room's narrow southern wall, sloping
down at a shallow angle. Halfway to the ballroom's floor it
cut back toward the west and down again, depositing them
in the southwest comer, twenty feet below the point where
they had entered the room. Beneath the stairs a pair of
doors centered in the wall led back out to the courtyard
where they had seen Count Berengar fighting earlier in the
day. A light breeze came into the room through the doors,
bringing with it enough of a chill to keep most people from
standing directly in front of them.

The north wall had three tall windows that reached
from the floor to the ceiling nearly thirty feet above. The
east wall had nine of those windows, but only the first six,
those nearest the north wall, had been glazed with clear
glass. The three near the southeast corner had huge stained
glass tableaux in them. Because that section of the wall
joined up to another part of the manor, the windows were
illuminated artificially. In triptych they told a story from
Aurdon's history, stressing, as would be expected, the
Fisher family's contribution to the city's defense against
raiders.

Three massive gold and crystal chandeliers, each with
four smaller satellites, filled the room with a golden light. It
reflected in kind from the gilt walls and the black marble
floor- Tables grouped along the western wall held all man-
ner of victuals and spirits, while smaller tables opposite
provided places for people to sit and converse. A small
orchestra had been arranged in the northwest comer of the
room- Their music cut through the Man sounds in the
room, pacing dancing guests as they spun and swirled
across the center of the dance floor.

Gena spotted Count Berengar amidst the dancers with a
tall woman who moved gracefully and sensuously in per-
fect time with the music. As Berengar spun her, the woman
laughed and raised her free hand to her throat. The gown

Once a Hero   115

she wore closely resembled Gena's in design—though it did
show off more bosom—and the skirts lapped like waves
around Berengar's legs as they danced.

The dance ended by the time Rik and Gena reached the
bottom of the stairs. Berengar bowed to his partner, then
headed straight toward the two of them. That brought a
flash of anger to the dark-haired woman's blue eyes. Gena
immediately decided the woman had to be Lady Martina,
so she gave her a politely patronizing smile intended to
convince Martina that trailing after Berengar for an intro-
duction would not be a good idea.

Berengar bowed deeply to the both of them. "Welcome,
my friends, to this modest celebration. In an hour or so we
will raise a toast in your honor—thoroughly embarrassing
you, I am certain." A bright smile lit his face, and Gena
saw a bead of sweat roll down his cheek from his temple.
"Until then we have food and wine and the best music to
be had in this region of Centisia. Please, enjoy yourselves."

Gena knew that even without resorting to magick, she
could have predicted how the rest of the evening would
proceed. When the music began playing again, Berengar
waited for Rik to take Gena out onto the dance floor, but
when he did not, the count asked Rik's permission to dance
with Gena- Rik consented graciously, Berengar asked, she
accepted, and the two of them moved into the crowd and
into the music as if they had been partnered together for
years.

In retrospect Gena realized that during the dance she
came as close to slipping into the party as she would all
night. Berengar's strong right hand at the small of her back
provided just the right clues to tell her when and how and
where they would move together. They wove through the
throng, whirling in time to the music, barely avoiding colli-
sions and tempting fate by darting back against the flow.
They cut past the other couples like a ship's prow through
light waves, laughing and smiling at the surprised and dis-
tressed expressions on those who parted before them.

Coming all the way around the dance floor, not unex-
pectedly did Gena see Lady Martina speaking closely with
Rik. Gena laughed immediately at the idea that a- woman
barely a tenth of her age would attempt to show her up by

116 Michael A. Stackpole

flattering Rik. Elves were by no means above the common
tricks used to embarrass and chasten rivals, but their lon-
gevity meant that their methods were often more subtle
and would take decades to accomplish what Men might
attempt in one turn on the dance floor. Gena's Elven per-
spective made Martina's flirtation with Rik transparent
and, thereby, pathetic.

As Berengar spun her past the Other two, Gena caught
the quick flash of Rik's eyes. He, too, she saw, recognized
Martina's game and indulged Martina for his own ends.
Gena felt a moment of compassion for the woman because
she knew Rik's contempt for pretense. Rik would play with
Martina as a cat might play with a mouse. He would draw
her out with smiles, nods and kind comments; encouraging
her to reveal more of herself. Before she knew it, he would
have gotten her to betray a secret held in the strictest confi-
dence. In that moment she would find herself embarrassed
at having spoken out of turn, and mortified over being
outwitted by the man she had sought to use for her own
purposes.

Her analysis of the games being played between Mar-
tina and Rik closed the window into the festivities that the
dance had opened for her. For the rest of the evening she
remained polite, but superficial. She marked people by
their reaction to her. Those who were afraid because of
Eldsaga tales she rewarded with a cold imperiousness that
fulfilled their expectations. When someone showed signs of
infatuation with her because of her race, she alluded to
experiences that no Man could understand, heightening
her alien standing.

She dealt most cruelly with those who deluded them-
selves enough to believe they were fluent in the Sylvan
tongue. She made her replies to them in an older form of
the language, then enlisted Rik as an interpreter. Though
he knew much less Sylvan than the people speaking with
her, Rik's glib tongue and quick wit often served to make
plays on words. Many presumptuous people wandered
away utterly confused, which brought Gena a perverse
sense of satisfaction, yet one about which she felt embar-
rassed.

Soon enough Berengar offered the toast to the two of

Once a Hero   117

them, and the assembly drank to their health. After that
she danced again with Berengar, then she and Rik excused
themselves and returned to their chambers. By agreement
they met in her room for a final glass of wine, then had a
celebration of their own. And unlike the ball they had left,
in this celebration she felt no detachment at all, except for
maybe once, just once, when Rik's hand rested against her
back where Berengar had held her, and she wondered what
it would have been like to have the count in Rik's place.

Gena awoke alone the next morning, but this neither
surprised nor distressed her. The one true vice she had was
a desire to sleep late. After a century and a half of rising
with the sun as she studied the Arcs from her grandaunt
Larissa, she willfully indulged herself in waking up slowly.
For her a perfect day began with quiet and reflection. She
thought about the dream fragments she could remember,
then planned out her day. In Cygestolia she often chose to
sun herself in the upper reaches of her family's home, but
she had not done that very orten since her grandaunt went
excedere.

In the Fisher mansion, which could not hope to rival
Woodspire in antiquity or beauty, she contented herself
basking in a sunbeam.

Rik, she had learned quickly, awoke with feline alert-
ness and a boundless energy. He required noise in the
morning. When they stayed in inns, he would be down in
the common room at the crack of dawn, listening to gossip,
trading stories, and offering opinions on whatever the lat-
est news had been. When they were alone on the road, he
would sing songs or whistle. Whereas she luxuriated in
I. quiet to start the day, he reveled in chaos—seeking it out or
' creating it as circumstances required.

Rik had roused himself very early. Kissing her on the
mouth, he smiled and whispered, "Last night we saw the
birds that dwell in the top of the tree. Today I want to leam
about the moles and voles."

Two hours later Gena finally swam clear of the sheets
and thick comforter on the bed and pulled'on the clothes
she had worn on the road in coming to Aurdon. The faint

118 Michael A Stackpole

trace of dampness in the blouse's cuffs told her the clothes
had been laundered and, from the scent of them, dried in
the kitchen. Her stomach rumbled once, tentatively, then
quieted as she pulled a chair over and sat down in the
rectangle of sunlight coming through one or the windows-

A gentle knocking on the door brought her head up.
She could see by the shift in the sunbeam that she had
drifted off to sleep again, but she reawakened more clearly
and sharply than earlier. Brushing her golden tresses back
from her face with her right hand, she stood and turned
toward the door. "Enter."

Count Berengar bowed his head as he opened the door.
He glanced up at her, smiled, then briefly looked around
the room. "You are awake, good. Where is Durriken?"

Gena shrugged. "Out. He prefers cities and has gone
exploring."

The count frowned for a moment- "When do you ex-
pect him to return?"

"I do not know. He did not say."

"I see."

"Is this a problem?"

"I suppose not, no." Berengar toyed with his beard.
"Could you leave him a note telling him that you have
gone riding with me?"

"I can do that, yes." Gena heard a restrained energy in
Berengar's voice, and his movements betrayed an urgency
that he was trying to keep hidden. "Our sojourn, it cannot
wait his return?"

"Circumstances being what they are, no. It is but a day
trip. I had hoped to leave immediately."

"I will write the note," Retreating to the bed, she
opened the drawer in the night table and removed a sheet
of paper, a quill, and a small capped bottle of ink. She
wrote out a suitable message, then folded it and wrote
Rik's name on the outside. Leaving it on the table, she
followed Berengar out of the room and to the stables.
There she found Spirit already saddled and standing beside
a huge black stallion.

They mounted up and rode out through the gates. Ber-
engar chatted politely, pointing out items of interest. What
Gena noticed most about his conduct and tour was that

Once a Hero   119

everything he said and did dwelt on a superficial level—a
level that they had always moved beyond when speaking
with each other. She suspected Berengar would share the
reason for his caution, and she found herself hoping his
situation had not made him an irredeemable paranoid.

Once outside Aurdon, they headed east and picked up
an escort of six riders. Two rode before them, two behind,
and one wide on each wing. They were not dad as guards
and appeared to be people just out on the road, with the
pair bringing up the rear leading a heavily laden packhorse.
Gena discerned their connection with Berengar because of
their abnormal alertness and the fact that they varied their
speed so that the count never left their sight.

Gena smiled as she turned to him. "I think this would
be an excellent time to inform me about what is going on.
We are not out for a simple ride, despite neither of us being
armed, are we?"

The red-maned giant shook his head. "You are most
perceptive. Lady Genevera. Captain Floris sent riders
ahead of his column to report suspected Haiadm nders in
the area. We have pinpointed a number of Haladin camp-
ing grounds. I have a company going out to inspect the
nearest of these, and I thought you would find it interesting
to come along."

"And you wanted to verify what you told us about the
Riverens and the Haladina."

Berengar nodded easily, acquiescing to Genevera *s de-
duction. "I asked you here to undo what Neal did long
ago- This will not be an easy task, and while it would
please me for you to agree based on my reportage of facts, I
think presenting you some evidence that I am telling the
truth is important."

"What we saw with the caravan was quite convincing."
Gena smiled up at Berengar. "The Haladina clearly are
ranging far from their Outlands."

"True, but that is as much a symptom of the chaos born
out of the empire's collapse into the commonwealth."

Gena realized that Berengar had thought deeply about
the political situation in the remains of the Red Tiger's
empire. In Cygestolia the news of the empire's division by
the provinces into a commonwealth had not excited much

120    Michael A. Stackpole

attention. That had been predicted since the forming of the
empire in her grandfather's time. The fact that the empire
had survived nearly four hundred years was seen as a mark
of maturation by Men, though the bloody fighting that re-
sulted as Men fought for control of their own small do-
mains eroded some of the gains the humans had made in
Sylvan minds.

Berengar pointed at a large building set on the far shore
of a small lake. "That is Lake Orvir. You can tell Durriken
you have seen his holding."

"It looks quite beautiful, and I imagine it can be quite
pleasant when the city becomes too hot in the summer."
Gena saw a small thread of smoke rising from behind the
manor house. "Does someone live there? I see smoke."

"Only a caretaker—an old servant who used to work
for my brother in town. He was devoted to my late
brother." Berengar shook his head. "I have suggested he be
recalled to Aurdon because of Haladin raiding, but he re-
fuses to come. He says he is too old for the Haladina to
cause problems for him."

"Though the caretaker may not have sense enough to
realize it, Haladin raiding is a problem. I will help you curb
it, whether or not the recovery of Neal's weapons is re-
quired."

Berengar smiled broadly. "That is an offer I wilt gladly
accept. I do have sorcerers among my Guard units, but
they do not have the skill I understand you displayed in
defeating the Haladina."

Gena glanced down at Spirit and picked a bit of straw
from the gelding's mane. "I suspect the telling about my
efforts exceeds the actual event. I also have no doubt that
your sorcerers are quite skilled and efficacious in their
magicks. If I have an advantage over them, it is that I have
spent far more time learning what I must know to work the
Art."

The tall man shrugged. "I will believe you because I
understand nothing of magick." He sighed rather heavily.
"Stratagems and tactics I understand perfectly, politics and
mercantilism I have mastered, but magicks are color to a
blind man."

"Nonsense. You are intelligent. You may not have the

Once a Hero   121

talent for magick, but you certainly can understand its
principles." Gena saw the disbelief on his face and took it
as a challenge. "Have you a coin? Gold or copper, not
silver."

Berengar fished in the pouch on his belt and produced a
shiny gold piece large enough that his thumb and forefinger
barely encircled it. "Will this do?"

"It will indeed." As he displayed it to her, she saw a
man's profile on one side and a fisher taking wing on the
other. "If you were to flip the coin into the air, as you.
might to make a choice or decide a contest, what are the
chances of its coming up heads?"

The warrior frowned for a moment, "One in two, if I
am not mistaken."

"Correct. So after flipping it ten times, what result
would you expect?"

"Five heads and five tails."

"Good. Start flipping the coin."

Berengar laughed lightly and did as she bid him. As the
coin first arced up into the air, Gena muttered the words to
a simple enchantment, one of the first taught to all students
of the Art. The coin fell back to Berengar's hand, appar-
ently unaffected or unaltered in any way. It landed with the
face up.

"One head."

Gena just smiled as he proceeded to flip the coin nine
more times. Berengar did not appear to become disturbed
until the sixth toss came up heads. For the seventh and
eighth he increased the rotational rate and for the final two
he sent the coin higher in an effort to make it land with the
bird staring up at him. His efforts came to naught, and his
fingers closed quickly over the coin.

"The Art allowed you to do that?"

Gena nodded as she wiped a trickle of sweat from her
cheek. "One aspect of magick is the manipulation of
chance. With a coin, where the chances of either result are
even, the trick is simple and the effort is not terribly (tax-
ing."

Berengar frowned. "But you made a wagon explode.
What do coins have to do with that?"

"The wagon's explosion was just an expansion of the

122    Michael A. Stackpole

chance problem." She saw he had not made the connec-
tion. "What are the chances of a wagon catching fire?"

"Relatively high, I imagine."

"Correct. Getting it to ignite would have been very
simple, but that wagon was already burning, so I had an
advantage. The explosion came about because of the sec-
ond factor in the Art. What I managed to do was compact
the amount of time it would take for the wagon to burn
completely. In effect, I made all of it combust at once, con-
suming it utterly. The heat and light it would have given off
in the course of hours it gave off all at once, creating the
explosion."

Berengar's brow wrinkled as he pondered what she had
told him. "If you can manipulate time . . ."

"Saying it is much easier than doing it, I am afraid."
Gena shook her head. "The difficulties of working magicks
are legion. To work a spell I need to be able to concentrate
on the casting. I need raw materials and I need to have
enough personal strength to trigger the result I want. I
could, I suppose, make horseshoes explode, but the
amount of personal energy that would require would kill
me."

"Personal energy? Anger, happiness?"

"No, physical strength and stamina." Gena felt a shiver
run down her spine. "We do not allow emotions to become
tied up in our magicks—speaking as an Elf now—except in
very special ceremonies. Putting emotions into magick, us-
ing them to fuel magick, can lead to a loss of control that
benefits no one. It could even kill the caster."

Gena shifted her shoulders to ease the uncomfortable
feeling. "There are other factors involved in magick, of
course. The Laws of Similarity, Contagion, and Holo-
morphism bend the laws of probability. For example, two
things that look alike, or are similar, have a natural bond
between them. Likewise, things that have been together are
bonded, and an item that is but a piece of another item has
a natural link to it."

"Hence the tales of witch women using a lock of hair or
fingernail parings to fashion a love charm."

The Elf nodded. "Yes, those are the stories, and those
things have a slight link, but not an important one. Hair

Once a Hero   123

and fingernails have no blood and no nerves, so their links
to the body are very weak. A finger or an ear or a tooth
would have a stronger bond to the person from which it

came.

"That's a bit of a grisly example, but I understand it."
Berengar smiled down at her. "Your skill at making the
arcane transparent is impressive."

"But only possible with a receptive and intelligent lis-
tener as the audience."

Berengar laughed and spurred his horse forward as
their ride took them out of the Aurdon valley. The outrid-
ers closed back up with the two of them, then they forded
the Aurdon River and rode off toward the north and east.
An hour later they stopped to water their horses in a tribu-
tary stream, then used that occasion to distribute the
swords carried by the packhorse.

Armed and armored, they set off again at a gentle trot.
Spirit found the gait comfortable and matched the pace set
by Berengar's stallion with little trouble. They made good
time, and the route they took seemed surprisingly well trav-
eled, a fact Gena mentioned to Berengar.

"It is that. Logging teams created this road up into the
mountains and down to the other side. Because the river
curves far to the east, and farther yet east because of
the way the floods three years ago moved its bed, using the
mountain pass during the spring and summer makes the
journey from Polston much quicker. The Haladma have
been hitting caravans coming up through the mountains."

Their ride continued and brought them up into the
foothills of the Central Mountains. The road carved a
muddy brown track on through a high meadow, but half-
way through the valley, the riders struck off southeast and
slipped through grasses and into the dark precincts of a
forest. As she rode toward it and the woods swallowed the
first two riders, Gena strained for any sounds of ambush,
but heard nothing. •

The darker forest realm made her feel more comfort-
able than the trail and very much more than the city. She
saw signs of a fire that must have swept through the area
fifty or a hundred years earlier. For every fire-scarred giant
still standing, she saw ten smaller, younger trees. Though

124 Michael A Stackpole

most were evergreens, a few aspen and birch groves had
carved out their own islands on the hillside. Dried orange
pine needles carpeted the ground, but dark-green ferns and
bushes sprouted up where sunlight pierced the verdant ceil-
ing above.

The riders formed up in single file as they directed their
horses onto a game trail. The young trees allowed for a
fairly good field of vision, though the ravines and wrinkles
in the landscape could have hidden dozens of Haladina.
The guards kept a careful watch, with half of them resting
their drawn swords across the pommel of their saddles.
Their procession moved more quietly than Gena would
have normally assumed Men could, and she knew, were
these the ancient Cygestolian forests, the lot of them could
have been taken by Elven Foresters before they realized
they were under attack.

Her apprehension did not slacken as the troops crested
a gentle rise and looked down on the campsite. The center
of the small depression had been cleared of trees, which, in
turn, had been used to make the crude lean-tos half dug
into the hillside. A narrow footpath leading up and away
on the opposite side of the depression suggested water
could be found over in that direction, while another area
on the north end of the gully looked to be where the
Haladina picketed their horses. Down the center of the
campsite ran a line of three firepits, bordered on all sides by
logs or stones suitable for seating.

Berengar brought his horse back next to hers and
leaned over. "As we thought, a campsite. From the smoke
and ashes I would guess they heard Waldo and his men
coming out here ahead of us and fled, probably off to the
north."

The explanation made sense to Gena. If Waldo and his
squad had followed the same trail, they would have entered
the depression from the south, so heading out north would
have made sense. "Do you think Waldo and his men have
pursued them?"

Berengar nodded. "He's probably chased them halfway
to Ispar by now." He pointed to the campsite. "Do you
want to inspect it?"

"Please."

Once a Hero   125

They rode on down into the bowl and dismounted.
Gena crouched by one of the firepits and warmed her
hands over the embers. "They must have left close to
dawn, after banking the fire for the night. They made no
attempt to extinguish the fires when they departed."

Berengar chuckled, hooking his thumbs in his sword-
belt. "I have never known the Haladina to be fastidious or
concerned with more than escape when pursued by Aurdon
Rangers."

"You have a point there." Gena rose and crossed over
to one of the lean-tos. Dark and damp, it smelled more of
woodrot than Man-musk to her, but the worn blankets
and scraps of cloth scattered around the enclosure sug-
gested both human habitation and a quick departure. Ev-
erything looked appropriate, but still something did not
feel quite right. She could not identify the incongruities, but
they gnawed at her.

Her apprehension spiked when she turned back toward
the firepits and saw the guards had spread themselves out
through the camp. Dismounted, using their swords to stir
ashes and poke lumps of leaves, they had abandoned their
previous caution. Even Berengar seemed bored, his eyes
unfocused as his mind drifted.

Across from her, where the footpath to water curved
around a colossal pine, she saw the flash and heard the
snap of a flashdrake's talon falling. As the puff of smoke
curling up from the ionggunne evaporated, she saw a
swarthy Haladin face break into a fierce bejeweled grin.
Even as she gestured in his direction and screamed a warn-
ing, keening Haladin war cries drowned her out, and a
dozen of the Outland warriors broke through the brush to
reclaim their camp from the count and his men.

"X

Chapter 8

The Long Ride

Late Summer

Reign of the Red Tiger Year 1

Five Centuries Ago

My Thirty-fifth Year

It struck me, as 1 rode from Aurium in the company of the
Lansorii Honorari, that a Haladin ambush was the least of
my worries. In actuality I felt less in their company than in
their custody. Had they been inclined to trust me, I'm cer-
tain they would have left me eating their dust for the whole
of the journey. Because they did not, two lancers rode be-
hind me, far enough back so they avoided my dust, but
close enough to make me turn this way and that to keep
track of them.

Aurium, being the size it was, was a mite small for
supporting the Steel Pack for the time we would be away.
While our fighting force numbered four hundred, grooms,
armorers, quartermasters, and camp followers swelled the
ranks to near double. Before I left, I struck a deal with
Festus and Childeric that allowed my people to set up
camp on the other side of the Aur River- The Steel Pack
foraged for game, and all excess was sold to the merchants

Once a Hero   127

in exchange for grains and other staples. Aurium, in turn,
paid for protection and advice on how to fortify the town
against raiders, the net result of all this being suitable living
conditions for my men and a slight profit for the mer-
chants.

While Drogo gladly accepted promotion to acting com-
mander in my absence, he tried to convince me that going
with the Elves would be my death. He didn't trust them,
and given history, I knew well his reasons. Part of me, deep
down, shared his fear for my safety, but my friendship with
Aarundel erased the past. The confrontation at the kgis-
latorium made it clear he was not going to let the Elves sent
to fetch him home give me trouble.

The journey itself would likely provide all the trouble
any of us needed. The distance between Aurium and Cyges-
tolia was near twelve hundred miles as the crow flies, but
given that summer was slipping fast into the season of ice,
not much was flying from the south up toward the north.
More to the point, none of us had wings: as we were
ground bound, the journey would take close to two
months, and that only if we pushed the horses as hard as
they would go.

The journey would also take us, albeit briefly, through
Reithrese territory. While it struck me as unlikely that the
Reithrese would actually attack an Elven troop; my pres-
ence might spur some ambitious Reithrese on to rash ac-
tion. I was thinking, given the utter silence that greeted my
presence as we rode off, that the honor guard would gladly
give me over to any Reithrese we met. At the very least that
would make me late for the wedding, so I was not looking
forward to any confrontation that made my delivery to the
enemy a viable solution.

Aarundel and I had decided during a late-night conver-
sation that the permission for him to marry Marta had
come because of the headway the Red Tiger was making in
his war with the Reithrese. We both knew that the Consil-
liarii would love nothing better than having Men bleed the
Reithrese while getting equally bled. Remaining neutral
and watching both sides weaken each other meant that the
Elves would not be challenged and not faced with the pros-

128 Michael A Stackfwte

pect of another crusade of the sort that spawned the Eld-
saga.

Not that the Red Tiger's victory might not do just that,
of course. Aarundel had pointed out a number of times
that certain actions might invoke the wrath of the Elven
nation, so the Red Tiger studiously avoided them. When
Polston fell, for example, the Reithrese priests were al-
lowed to deconsecrate their temples and withdraw from
the city unmolested. Attention to Elven concerns meant
that we waged a war which we kept civilized—no mean
feat—and that, in turn, meant we remained in control and
actually thought in terms of strategy and tactics before we
hurled ourselves into battle. Even Sture avoided the ele-
mental tactical mistakes that had cost his father his life and
his realm.

The Constlliarii considered this shift- in the way Men
waged war to be the result of Aarundel's influence in our
force. It is true that strategy and tactics were something
that the longer-term Elven perspective made possible, but
their introduction to our councils was not made by
Aarundel alone. I had seen enough in watching the battles
waged by and against Tashayul to see where victory had
been snatched from the jaws of defeat by the Reithrese's
superior planning. In doing so I realized (hat forethought,
which brought with it an awareness of terrain, weather,
supply, morale, and a host of other factors, could make a
meagre force far more powerful than it had any right to be.

The Red Tiger himself came at tactics from an entirely
different direction. Having been enslaved by the Reithrese,
he saw their utter disregard for life, and human life espe-
cially. In losing friends to carelessness and cruelty, he saw
no reason to win with blood what could be taken by
stealth, surprise, and superior planning. While he saw the
Reithrese nation as a giant scorpion preying on humanity,
he knew the Reithrese army—filled out with Haladin war-
riors—was the scorpion's sting. Eliminating it or its ability
to fight would force the scorpion to withdraw and win him
the war more easily than anyone could imagine.

The Consilliarii's recalling of Aarundel was proof they
could not imagine Men learning from past mistakes. By
stripping us of his expertise, I assumed they thought we

Once a Hero   129

would collapse after having liberated Centisia. By with-
drawing Aarundel they could claim to the Reithrese that
they prevented the Red Tiger from overthrowing them. If
we kept on winning, the lack of an Elf in our midst would
free the Reithrese to use any means at their disposal to
oppose and defeat us.

All of my thinking on this subject occurred in a vac-
uum. The Elves had decided to ignore me as best they
could, but I'd probably not have discussed all this with
them even under torture. Shijef might have offered interest-
ing comments, but he opted to isolate me as well. He got
along no better than I with the Elves, but he was used to a
solitary existence and apparently had decided I should see
what it felt like.

We had left Aurium early in the day and headed
roughly northwest. We continued on for two hours, out-
stripping evidence of human habitation. The Elves and
their mounts moved through the forest with a preternatural
ability that included shadows* reluctance to surrender them
to light. Even the slight clanking of their armor dulled in
the forest, and as I looked around, I realized I could see
only the two Elves directly in front of me. The rest had
disappeared.

I knew the Elves meant to shock me and inspire fear in
me. They succeeded, for I could easily imagine the terror of
people in the Eldsaga when the Elven Legions materialized
at the edge of a forest before riding down some tiny village.
I also knew that Aarundel, up there at the head of the line,
was allowing his compatriots' pranks because he would
have been surprised if I showed fear. hi his honor, and for
the pride of Men everywhere, I relaxed in the saddle and
started humming a little tune.

I resolved to smile as well because the day had dawned
bright and even in the deep forest, the sun managed to
warm the air. Slate-gray tree bark broke up the deep greens
and bright rust of evergreen needles present and past. The
trail on which we rode wound around, up and down,
through various little hills and along streambeds. I was
thinking it was a game trail because it tended to go around
things instead of over them, but piles of mossless stones at

130    Michael A. Stackpole

certain points along the way told me Men had been using it
recently.

Mud splashed up from our horses' hooves as we picked
our way down a swampy streambed. Clouds of needle-flies
rose up but ignored the Elves in favor of me. Slapping the
little bloodsuckers distracted me enough that I missed the
spot where the others had ridden up from the streambed.
Blackstar, apparently likewise immune to the insects, plod-
ded on and started up on the far side of the muddy track. I
gave him his head, and though I saw nothing ahead of me,
I assumed I was headed in the right direction.

Though I had lost sight of them for only a moment and
had spent less than a minute in locating them again, the
Elves surprised me when I found them. They had already
shucked their armor, unsaddled their horses, and set up
camp on a hilltop plateau. As I came through the circle of
oaks that denned the perimeter of their camp, I wondered
at how the trees would have taken root in such a precise
pattern. Once inside, however, the answer to that question
seemed unimportant, and I began to fee! as if I were suffer-
ing from a moming-after without ever having enjoyed the
night before.

A bit shaky, I swung out of the saddle, and a dizzy
wave crested over me. I flailed at the saddle with my right
hand, causing Blackstar to shy away from me when I
needed the support. I kicked my left foot free of the stirrup
and braced myself for the Elves' piercing ridicule. Before I
could land flat on my back however, strong hands grasped
me under the armpits and steadied me.

The dizziness vanished when my feet hit the ground. I
felt energy pour up from the earth through the soles of my
boots. My toes curled down into claws, and my spine
arched back as millions of pinpricks raced up my body. I
wanted to yelp from pain and surprise, but the power froze
my throat. Old air burned in my lungs, but the urgency
with which I felt I needed to breathe dissolved as the tin-
gling bounced around inside my skull, then seemed to ex-
plode out through my forehead.

I dropped to my right knee, pressing my right hand to
the ground to steady myself. I swiped with my left hand at
the stinging sweat searing my eyes, then looked up at the

Once a Hero   131

Elves gathered at the center of the circle. They regarded me
closely, watching and waiting for something. I snarled at
them, then forced myself erect. I repaid their curiosity with
defiance and received surprise back again.

Aarundel clapped me on the back. "I had not realized
we were so close to a circus translation

"A whafi"

He crossed to where Blackstar stood and picked up the
dangling reins. "This is a place of great magick. Magii
sylvani wove great spells here eons ago. Had you not been
with us, were the perimeter not disturbed by our recent
passage, you would likely not have noticed this place ex-
isted. If you had, you would have most probably decided it
was evil and have chosen to avoid it." He led the horse
over to where the others were picketed, and I followed.
"That is fortunate because the results could have been di-
sastrous."

I frowned. "What are you talking about? What I felt
here was not pleasant at all. If that wasn't a disaster, I'm
thinking I don't want to know what would have been."

Aarundel gave me an open smile. "Among Men, the
ability to cope with magickal energies is much akin to the
tolerance for vital libations. With some, evidence your man
Gathelus, even a weak drink profoundly impairs them."

I nodded. If Gathelus so much as stands downwind of
an open bottle of wine, he falls fast asleep. Drogo and
Fursey Nine-finger, by contrast, could use Nakanese
brandy as blood and still remain sharp. "Entering here
could have left me senseless?"

"It could have killed you—in theory—though I knew
you would survive." He shrugged casually as he slipped the
cinch strap on Blackstar's saddle. "I know you well enough
to know that your ability to tolerate magicks is substan-
tial."

"How?"

Aarundel tapped his left eye and smiled. "I have seen it.
You have made oaths and they have been verified." He
pointed back in the direction of Aurium. "When you joined
those two families, you made an oath, and it will survive.
Had you been educated in the Art, you would be, for a
Man, a very powerful magician."

132 Michael A. Stackpole

I shook my head, refusing to believe him. "I'm not say-
ing you may not be right, but I'm thinking you're counting
a lot on an oath not yet two days old."

"You vowed to kill Tashayul, and cited prophecies that
came true."

"Luck, not power."

"Oh, you are Fortune's child, Neal—and your birth be-
neath the Triangle proves it—but you have power as well."
He glanced back over his shoulder at the other Elves.
"They expected you to faint and, if you had, would have
used that as a reason you should not be taken with us."

"You will understand if I say that disappointing them
does not cause me much pam." I slipped a halter over
Blackstar's head, then attached the lead to the picket line.
"Why are we stopping here? It is barely noon, and we've a
long ride before us."

Aarundel smiled knowingly. "But not as long as you
imagine, my friend. Rest here, and we will be off when it
gets dark."

One of the other Elves called to him, and Aarundel
answered quickly in the Sylvan tongue. I smiled and nod-
ded toward the other Elves. "Go, speak with them. You've
been apart from your people for a long time, and they are
an honor guard. They're proud to be here, and we should
respect that."

"Thank you for understanding."

I winked. "What are friends for?"

Aarundel walked off and squatted down at the base of
one of the oaks. I leaned back and watched them Jabbering
away among themselves. Every so often, though I under-
stood nothing they said, I laughed, japing them. That gen-
erally prompted their voices to sink to whispers until a
speaker became excited enough that his voice rose, and I
laughed again.

In their vanity—and their reaction to my laughter—I
found Elves far nearer to Men than either side of the Eld-
saga would ever like to admit- That set a great pan of me
at ease, which is why, seated there with over a dozen peo-
ple who had once tried to exterminate my ancestors, I
drifted off to sleep.

I awoke quite alert, which I put down to the power of

Once a Hero   133

the magick circle instead of my distrust of my companions.
Blinking the sleep from my eyes, I found Shijef crouched at
my side. His fetid breath bathed me with the scent of long-
deceased, recently devoured forest creatures. "Seek they
steal Shiier." The Dreei pointed toward the Elves, then
flexed his left paw, extending the claws. "Lifeblack pools."

I frowned as a semicircle of Elves approached us- Each
of them wore a silver coronet, two silver bracelets, and a
pair of anklets. The fire burning behind them flashed from
the slender silver chain connecting bracelets up and over
their shoulders. Two other looping chains hung from the
coronet at their temples and linked into the shoulder chain.
I suspected that similar chains ran up the backs of their legs
and connected as well to the shoulder line, but I could not
be certain because of the loose-legged black trousers they

wore.

I grabbed a thick handful of the mane at the back of
Shijef s neck and pulled myself erect. I knew it had to hurt
him, but I wanted that to remind him who was master and
who was slave. His appeal to me was not a request for
rescue, but his asking permission to kill as many of them as
he could. He knew I would not give it, but he asked in
hopes I might make a mistake.

"Explain." Standing, I could see Aarundel seated back
by the fire. He wore the same silver jewelry as the others,
but had the faraway look on his face that I had come to
associate with his communion with Marta. "I know we
share a desire to leave the Imperator in peace at this time,
so, please, do not make disturbing him necessary."

One of the Elves took a step forward and held out to
me a set of the jewelry. "Required to continue the sojourn.
You and it."

I accepted the jewelry and settled the coronet on my
head. All 1 felt was cold metal against my brow and the
backs of my ears. The catch-bracelets snapped over my
wrists easily, which surprised me, as my wrists are thicker
than those of an average Elf. With the anklets dangling
down between my legs, I turned to the Dreel. "Secure them
to my ankles."

Shijef snarled, but bent to the task. His huge paws
closed the delicate loops gently even though I know he

134    Michael A. Stackpole

would have preferred to take my legs off at the knees. He
remained seated on his haunches, refusing to look up, with
his claws tracing odd patterns in the dirt.

I glanced over at the Elf holding the second set of
chains. "Give them to me."

He did so, and I dropped to my knees in front of the
Dreel. "Hold still." As I shut the bracelets and anklets, 1
made certain to clear all fur from the mechanism so Shijef
would not have something more about which to complain.
As it was, the bracelets were a fairly tight fit, and the coro-
net barely settled on the crown of Shijef's head. The chains
had enough slack in them that I knew he could move nor-
mally, but he affected arm gestures suitable for a man thor-
oughly bound with chains of lead, not silver.

As I stood again and brushed the dirt from my knees,
one Elf made a comment that prompted laughter from the
others.

"He does not serve the beast, Siric, he prevents you
from losing an arm while serving Shijef yourself."
Aarundel's anger lashed out at the other Elves, and over
half of them blushed.

I shrugged and looked beyond them at my friend. "I'd
not be thinking Sine meant that comment harshly. Like as
not he's thinking the Dreel is my pet—being as how, of
course, only a Man would be dumb enough to keep a Dreel
as a pet."

Aarundel nodded stiffly at first in acknowledging my
point. "It would be like Siric to have forgotten to ask how
a Man might have a Dreel traveling in his company. They
might find the tale illuminating."

"Might be like they would, but enlightenment can
wait." I held my hands up and shook the silvered chains.
"Their explanation for our needing to wear these was a bit
on the lean side."

Aarundel frowned at the other Elves, "The chains are
attuned to the magick of the circus translatio. They allow
you to use it. You'll see."

I smiled. "I can't wait. All dressed in our riding chains,
should we be off?"

"Agreed."

Our horses had been similarly fitted with soft cloth of

Once a Hero   135

silver bands around their fetlocks, with the chains running
along their belly and connecting up into the saddle. A silver
plate had been slipped over the part of the bridle resting on
the horses' foreheads, and that had two chains hanging
down to connect with the chain running along the horses'
breastbones. Btackstar seemed a bit skittish as I mounted
up, but I patted him on the neck and that settled him a bit.

One of the Elves—it could have been Siric, but they all
look quite similar in the twilight—leaned down from his
horse and set a torch afire in the fire burning at the center
of the clearing. Two other Elves extinguished the fire as
Siric moved out toward the perimeter of the trees. He
stopped in front of the tree closest to the northwest,
bowed, and muttered something in Sylvan. Then he started
to ride to the left, smacking the torch against the boles of
each tree excepting the one where he started.

As he did this, I noticed two things. The first was that
an uneven number of trees circled the clearing. Like the
signs at a crossroads, I learned later, each tree marked one
end of a plumb line that pointed to another circus transia-
tto. While I've not got a merchant's head for figures, I real-
ized that the Elves had an interesting network of magickal
pathways stretching out over the face of Skirren.

The second thing was that the sparks exploding from
every touch of a tree started to trail after Siric as he made
his circuit. His horse ran faster and faster, as if the burning
sparks were a swarm of bees in pursuit. A second and a
third time Siric rode the circuit of trees, each time fire-
annointing each tree except the first. As he completed the
final circuit, he cut his horse hard to the left, bringing it to
the center of our company; then he turned it and rode at a
gallop toward the tree where he had started the whole rit-
ual.

The sparks swirled around us, then again followed in
his wake. I felt a magickal tug impelling me to follow him.
I hesitated, knowing he was going to dash out his brains
when he hit the tree. The other Elves spurred their horses
forward, and I saw the Dreel galloping ahead in the thick
of the pack. Only Aarundei held back, clearly waiting for
me, so I touched my heels to Blackstar's ribs, and like an
arrow loosed by a war bow, he shot forward.

136    Michael A. Stackpole

The sparks clustered and thickened ahead of me, hiding
the tree behind a golden curtain. As I closed with it, each
spark became a dot again in a black honeycomb that closed
over me with the feathery touch of a cobweb. As I passed
through it, each spark stretched out to the length of
Cleaveheart and shifted color from red to blue as I rode
past- They dragged at me like an ocean's undertow, then
touched my chains and released me. Free, I felt a moment
of nothing before the onset of a pressure against me.

I met resistance akin to that of a strong headwind, but I
could not feel the wind. My clothes remained still, as if I
were not moving at all, yet between my legs Blackstar ran
for all he was worth and then more. I instinctively hunched
down against his neck, and I could smell his sweat as he
labored so. Even though I had no trouble remaining in the
saddle, each heartbeat brought with it the fatigue that a
minute on the road would have caused.

That sapping of vitality might have concerned me, but
other things served to distract me completely. The world
through which we rode had become the ghost of itself.
Whereas we had begun our journey at night, the sky and
the landscape were white. Black pinpricks dotted the sky,
and a black ball hung where I expected to see the evening's
first moon- Trees flashed past all whitewashed and spectral,
and I felt a cold chill as their limbs tried to drag me from
the saddle.

I looked forward and back at the Elves and saw them
still in color- My flesh remained tan and my tunic still ap-
peared blood-red- Whatever magicks had been invoked in
the circus translatio, we were a company now set apart
from the rest of the world.

As we rode, miles fell behind us like rain falling in a
monsoon. Then, suddenly, the land dropped away from
beneath Blackstar's hooves, but he did not descend to the
earth. He pressed on, as did the riders before me, his
hooves striking hard on an invisible roadway. The horse
galloped onward, apparently unconcerned with the lack of
visual clues to his location. It occurred to me then that the
Elves and the horses and even Shi)ef might see things en-
tirely differently from me. If that allowed them to navigate
through this world of white-shadow and lead me out of it,

Once a Hero   137

then I'd thank the gods for my companions' special eye-
sight and hang on tightly.

It should have occurred to me—given that when we
rode through a tree, no forest branches had stung me and
the land lay well below where Blackstar galloped—that the
real world and our passage had very little to do with each
other. This idea finally came to me when Blackstar plunged
into a mountain. Bone-freezing cold filled me, and a shud-
der even went through my horse. The stone layers flashed
by like a gray rainbow, with cracks and fissures cutting
through them like black lightning forks crapped immobile.

For the briefest of moments we burst through into a
cavern. We rode a dozen feet above the floor and slashed
through the cavern diagonally. While the stalactite that bi-
sected me made me think the room was a normal forma-
tion, the afterimages of worked columns and a cowering
dwarf told me otherwise. Having been in a Dwarven
stronghold before, I turned to look back, as if my vision
could penetrate stone as easily as we rode through it, but a
stone shroud denied me another glimpse of the mountain's
heart.

Flying out through the other side of the mountain, I
saw what looked to be black bugs fleeing across a snow-
field. Three wraiths chased after them, and though the
whole sight grew smaller as we rode on, I was able to figure
out what I had seen. A trio of shepherds were chasing
down a flock that had been disturbed in the wee hours of
the morning. If we looked to them the way they did to us,
the shepherds would tell of ghost-riders raiding them, and I
laughed soundlessly thinking that someday I would hear a
bard singing a song inspired by our passage.

We sped straight across a mountain valley and again
entered a forest. I reflexively dodged branches, but found
myself getting sluggish. Lather covered Blackstar's neck
and chest, and I felt thoroughly leeched of life. As Blackstar
had come from Elven stocks, I had no doubt that he could
go as long as any of the Elves' horses—I hoped, for my
own sake, that I had as much stamina as the lancers them-
selves.

A vertical black line appeared impaled on the horizon. I
expected it to widen as we pushed on, but it did not. Wider

138    Michael A. Stackpole

than a hair, yet barely broader than Cleaveheart, the line
hung tantalizmgly just beyond my reach. It did stretch out,
above and below, but trees and rocks, streams and hills
flew past on both sides without affecting it. Yet even
though I caught no visual clues that we were getting any
nearer to it, I knew we were.

Suddenly it engulfed us with the enthusiasm of a Dreel
shoving food into its maw. An explosive wave of heat
washed over me; then smoke swirled around me and 1
heard the sound of Blackstar's labored breathing. I cut the
reins to the right, and as the dawn filled the grove with
the first hints of color, I ran Blackstar around and clear of
the Elven riders. I heard Aarundel come out from behind
me, and a popping akin to that of a cork being pulled from
a jug chased him from the magickal roadway.

I laughed aloud even though my chest ached from the
effort of breathing. I felt as if I had ridden for a month,
though it would turn out that we had only covered ten
days' distance of normal hard riding. Blackstar stamped
and I immediately swung off his back. "You've carried me
far enough, friend."

My legs trembled but did not buckle, my spine crackled
and muscles protested as I straightened up. Looking about,
I saw very weary Elves clinging to saddles or already seated
on the ground, but I resisted the urge to puff up my chest
and carry on as if I were not weak as a kitten. Leading
Blackstar back toward the middle of the clearing, I looked
up as one of the horses emitted a little squeal and leaped
sideways.

Shijef lay on the ground in the middle of the grassy
circle, huddled over on his right flank. Blood, black-red at
the dawn's first caress, covered his muzzle and paws- He
clutched a fluffy ivory bundle to his chest and snapped and
snarled at the Elves staring down at him. If not for the
blood and the little black legs jutting out of the bundle, I
would have thought it a pillow or a Dreel-sized toy, but I
saw clearly it was a sheep, quite dead, and, for the Dreel, a
prized possession.

Aarundel half fell from his saddle and landed beside
me. "How did he procure that sheep?"

I shrugged and Shijef swallowed, then gave us a gory

Once a Hero   139

smile- "Magick Elves have, magick Shijef is." He howled
delightedly, and more horses shied away from him. He bit
down through the sheep's skull and sucked noisily at the
brains, which made me give him a wide berth. I led Black-
star over to where an Elf set up a picket line; then I stripped
him of tack and rubbed him down with handfuls of grass.

Having fulfilled my duty to my horse, I stumbled off
and collapsed into a heap. Sleep came swiftly, and merci-
fully did not bring with it a dream-recital of Dreel gusta-
tory grunts, groans, and squeaks.

We remained in that circus translatio for three days,
which still put us a week ahead of schedule had we not
used so remarkable a method of travel. Discussion of how
the Dreel managed to take a sheep on the ride brought me
more into the company of the Elves, as Aarundel indicated
I was the repository of all knowledge about the Dreel. I
was not, but I offered a few interesting ideas. That, along
with performing a little bit more than an equal share of all
chores, made the Elves used to me and prompted tolerance
from more than half their number.

The second and third legs of the journey pushed us deep
into the vast forests claimed by the Elves as their gods-
given holdings. Being as how I was from the Roclaw
Mountains, where trees were wind-scourged, gnarly-
branched bird-roosts, and that I'd only seen the forests in
and around Manlands, the Forests of Cygestolia made me
feel as small and insignificant as most of the Elves probably
saw me. Where other forests were merely stands of grow-
ing trees, Cygestolia was a place where the forest flour-
ished.

Before seeing the Elven wood, I was used to forests
where one could look up and see a narrow river of blue sky
coursing between treetops. In Cygestolia the trees grew on
forever, rooted in the ground at one end and amidst the
clouds at the other. In places, trees grew closely enough
together that I could not see through them, and yet, at
other times, wooded vistas extended for miles. The whole
of the forest seemed almost quiltlike in how it shifted and

140    Michael A. Stackpole

changed—as if in the woodlands tended by the Elves, all
the world's forests could be found.

With Aarundel or another of the Elves along, I was
allowed to explore the areas outside the grove-circles-
Dunlan and Reysawin seemed to detest my company the
least, so we talked of all sorts of things while I rooted
around looking for berries, roots, and herbs of various
sorts—the Elves were feeding me, but I'm often as much a
meat-gobbler as ShiJef, so I laid claim to parts of his kills
and cooked my own food from time to time.

The Elves all seemed initially reluctant to speak about
themselves, so I drew them out by asking questions about
the Reithrese. No love had been lost between those two
elder races, so the Elves proved less guarded in speaking
about them-1 learned, for example, that the Reithrese have
a similar system of circii translatio, but they base theirs
around volcanoes and geysers. As Reysawin commented
and I agreed, the Reithrese system was not very useful,
because no one would want to go to those types of places
in any event.

As we drew closer to the heart of Cygestolia, to the city
that gives the whole region its name, Aarundel mostly and
Dunlan a little bit began to instruct me on proper conduct.
Dunlan treated me as if I were gutterkin utterly unschooled
and uncomprehending about anything the least bit man-
nerly. He laid down absolute rules, which could be
summed up as "Do nothing unless specifically invited to do
it; and decline most of the invitations, because they will be
offered out of politeness only."

As he knew nothing of my background, I expected him
to give me such a simple system of strictures. I got some of
the same from Aarundel, which surprised me, because he
had been to the Roclaws and had dined at my brother's
table. I put his occasional curtness down to nervousness
concerning the reaction to my arrival. I knew he wanted
me there as a friend, but doing something that might tweak
the noses of the Consilharii did cause him a little concern.

Aarundel laid out more carefully the things I could and
could not do and explained some of the reasons behind the
strictures, as well as all of the penalties I could incur if I
broke them. Most things would be taken as my being ill-

Once a Hero   141

bred, which was a given because of my Humanity, but that
would make Aarundel look bad. At the worst I could be
whipped, though Aarundel allowed as how, given I was his
guest, I would likely just be exiled from Cygestolia.

Only one crime bore a more severe penalty. "Under no
condition, no matter the provocation, no matter the neces-
sities of the moment, shall you touch one of the sylvanesti.
Not a babe offered by a proud parent, not a lady failing
faint, not a grandmother dead and in a shroud."
AarundePs dark eyes became slits. "You must remember
this, Neal, for you will be slain and she will be disgraced. If
things go too far, if there is issue, it will be slain and the
denied woman will be declared dead among her people."

I frowned and plucked a ripe blackberry from a thorny
bush. "What if a big hole opens beneath her feet and only I
can save her from falling into it?"

"No hole will open, but were one to open, you would
let her go. She would want it that way." He grabbed me
by the shoulders. "Promise me you will not touch a
sylvanesti."

I nodded and winked at him, "I promise. I'm thinking
you're just afraid I'd steal your Marta away from you."

"No, I have no reason to think that. What I fear is that
you, who know her through me, and she, who knows you
through me, might be so pleased to meet each other that
you would hug or touch in an innocent manner, then both
of you would be lost to me forever."

"I comprehend the source of your anxiety." I frowned.
"Now this poor sylvanesti who has fallen down this hole, I
could toss her a rope."

Aarundel shook his head with resignation. "Yes, a rope
would be fine. She cannot feel you touch her."

"So if I grabbed her by her belt to stop her from falling,
but didn't actually touch her flesh . . ."

"Neal! This is not a game." Anger shot through his
eyes, then vanished. "Forgive me. I know you and can trust
you. Others do not, and therein lies the potential for diffi-
culty."

"You will never have reason to regret that trust." I
slapped him on the ribs, then tossed him a blackberry. "I

142    Michael A. Stackpole

will act so proper, your people will be thinking me a bob-
eared Elf with an odd accent."

The final leg to Cygestotia proved as exhausting as all
before it, yet our company arrived giddy and exalted to be
at journey's end. Excitement coursed through us, and a
couple of the Elves slapped me on the back in congratula-
tions even after they realized who I was. Aarundel almost
immediately sank into one of his contemplative fugues, so I
dragged him from his saddle and put both of our horses up
before lying down to sleep myself.

Being as close as we were to Cygestolia, it might have
seemed a good idea just to ride out to the city immediately,
but we did not for the same reason that using the circii
translatio to mount an invasion was ineffective. The circles
and the magical energy inherent in them allowed us to re-
cover from the exertions of the journey much more swiftly
than we could outside their precincts. An army moved in
this manner would be unable to function in a battle shortly
after their arrival, and any of us who had ridden out to the
city would have fallen from the saddle asleep before we
ever got there.

I awoke from my rest in midafternoon, which was a bit
sooner than I had intended and a lot sooner than my body
desired. Still, Aarundel's insistent demands that I wake up
cut through the sleep cocoon in which my consciousness
rested, so I sat up and rubbed sleepsand from my eyes. I
had planned to ask him what could possibly be more im-
portant than sleep, but the raptured expression on his face
answered me immediately.

"Come with me, Neal. Come, come." He pulled me to
my feet, then waited impatiently as I stretched. "Neal!" he
whispered emphatically and jerked his head toward the
north.

I followed him as quickly as I could, and my eyes slowly
focused on a form standing at the edge of the circle. Even
my sluggish brain could determine that the dark-haired,
gown-clad person had to be Marta. I smiled at that realiza-
tion and picked up my pace, then raked fingers back
through my hair to clear it away from my face.

Once a Hero   143

At that point I knew Aarundel saw in me more of a
friend than even he would have imagined. I had been riding
for two days and a fortnight and looked it. Worse yet, I
smelled like it. My beard had not been razor-slain since
leaving Aurium, and while my tunic had been washed and
wrung out twice since then, it looked more ready for burn-
ing than wearing. I had imagined washing up and prepar-
ing a proper image for when I met his Marta, but that
chance had gone the way of the sheep Shijef had stolen.

None of my concerns would have mattered at all to
Aarundel. His Marta had come out to see him, to welcome
him, and he wanted her to meet me. I hoped, as I hurried
along, that she loved him deeper than the hole I wished
would swallow me up, because it would take a lot of love
to excuse my pitiful appearance. Then again, if she didn't
love him that much, scaring her off at this point would be
the best thing I could do for him.

Slowing just a hair so I could pare the grime from be-
neath my fingernails, I approached the couple. I stopped
short a good Man-length from them and shifted so I'd be
more downwind than up. Holding hands together, they
were lost in each other's eyes and didn't notice me until I
cleared my throat.

Aarundel blinked, then blushed a bit and extended his
left hand in my direction. "Doma Marta, this is Neal
Roclawzi, the one I have named Custos Sylvanii. Neal, this
is my heart-twin, my vitamoresti. Lady Marta."

I bowed deeply to her. "This is an honor I have long
awaited."

"The honor is mine, Custos Sylvanii."

For the next two seconds we said nothing and ap-
praised each other. 1 know I got the better of the exchange,
for her exquisite beauty meant I could have watched her
for a good long time without complaint. Tall enough to
look me even in the eyes, she had a slender grace and nobie
bearing the equal of which I had never seen before. She
wore her dark hair shorter even than Aarundel or me, and
it molded itself to her head and the back of her neck with
tight curls. Her blue eyes and bright smile made me feel
welcome and toid me she well understood how the hard-
ships of the journey had left their mark on me.

144    Michael A. Stackfwie

I looked over at Aarundel. "My friend, until this day I
have envied you nothing. Now I envy your tremendous
fortune in sharing love with this sylvanesti."

Aarundel laughed aloud and kissed Marta on the fore-
head. "I shall do all I am able to be worthy of your envy,
my friend." He smiled at Marta, then looked beyond me
toward the glade surrounding the circle. "You did not tell
me she rode out with you."

Marta nodded. "While you slept, she decided to gather
herbs and flowers."

Aarundel's smile grew and he waved his left hand.
"Neal, it is also my pleasure to present to you my sister,

Larissa.*'

I turned back toward the rustling in the brush with an
easy smile on my face and laid my eyes on the most beauti-
ful female the gods had ever blessed with life.

Chapter 9

The Magick of Battle

-X

Early Spring
A.R. 499
The Present

The smile on the Haladina's face died when his flashdrake
failed to fire. Gena concentrated for a second, then opened
her hands in his direction. A burning spark sped at the man
with the straight-line accuracy of a bee. It swerved once, at
the end, darting down from his face to the powder hom
dangling near his waist. The magickal ember pierced it,
melting the Haladina's look of surprise into a mask of hor-
ror.

The powder horn's explosion launched the raider into
the air. His longgunne fell one way, and, trailing thick
white smoke, his iimp body went another. From the comer
of her eye Gena saw him hit the ground and bounce loose-
limbed and bloody.

Knowing he was dead, she turned her attention to the
four Haladina racing in at Berengar. A disorienting sensa-
tion passed through her as she turned her head. She recog-
nized it as the aftereffects of casting two spells in haste, but
that did not stop it from upsetting her balance and driving

146    Michael A. Stackpole

her to one knee. Her right hand closed on sand and pine
needles as she caught herself.

Forcing nausea away, she prepared another spell.

Before she could cast it, the swiftest of the Haladina
had reached Berengar. The smaller Hatadina yipped his
war cry, but Berengar drowned it out with a roar that
would have pleased the tiger on his crest. The count caught
the man's overhand saber cut on the forte of his rapier,
then pivoted on his left foot and snapped a kick at the
Haladina's leg. Berengar's right heel hit the man on the
knee, snapping it straight, then carrying through to break it
back in the other direction.

Taking a deep breath, Gena concentrated and felt
power pulse down her arm and into the handful of dirt.
She raised it up and threw it, releasing it in an arc going
from high right to low left. Her arm fell leaden to her side.
Exhausted, she shivered and watched as her sand spray hit
two of the remaining Haladina bent on Berengar's destruc-
tion.

The ribbon of sand slashed at the men as if it were a
stony whip. The very tip of it swept away the furthest
man's ear and polished to shining the metal trinkets hang-
ing on his vest. He found himself involuntarily twisted
back to his right. His momentum carried him forward, but
the broken rhythm of his steps caused him to falter and fall
to his knees at the outer edge of Berengar's sword-arc.

Vertigo twisted her insides, but she saw the man closer
to her stopped in midrun. Air exploded from his lungs as
the sand-scream lashed his torso. The sand ate. through his
woolen vest, the tunic below it, and the flesh beneath that
like strong acid. Gena thought she saw white ribs, then the
man's legs flew out from beneath him, and he landed hard
on his back, obscuring her view of his ruined chest.

The last Haladin raider rushing in at Berengar suddenly
found himself alone instead of being the left flank of a
united front. Berengar sidestepped to his right, then
pivoted out of the way of the Haladina's weak cross-body
slash. The second that blade passed, Berengar whipped his
blade across the back of the Haladina's legs, slicing
through muscles and dropping the man screaming to the
sand.

Once a Hero   147

A thrust through the throat finished the one-eared
raider. Berengar looked up from him to the other man
felled by magick, then jogged over to where Gena knelt
huddled against the ground. She let her head drop down as
he approached, heard the sound of his rapier being thrust
into the sand, and felt his strong hands on her shoulders.

"Are you hurt. Lady Genevera?"

She coughed and wiped the sweat from her brow with
her right hand. That smeared dirt across it, a fact that reg-
istered in her mind, but seemed decidedly trivial as Beren-
gar's bodyguards finished the last of the Haladina. "just
tired. Combat casting is usually not difficult. If you have
some preparation. Ambush means reacting without much
forethought."

Berengar smiled and helped her sit upright. "If not for
you, 1 would be dead. The Haladina with the flashdrake
would have killed me." He glanced back over his shoulder
at where the man's smoking body lay. "How did you save
me?"

Gena smiled weakly. "The first spell taught to any stu-
dent of the Art, for obvious reasons, involves extinguishing
fires. Rik has explained to me and showed me that what
happens in a flashdrake is fire building up behind the ball.
Being familiar with the idea, and having discussed it before,
I just put the fire out."

"Then you put fire in his fuel box."

Gena nodded and licked sweat from her upper lip.
"That was easy. Making fire is the second spell most magi-
cians learn."

Berengar laughed lightly. "And the sand?"

"I would have thought you too busy to notice that."

"I have forced myself to be aware of everything on a
battlefield. Awareness is the key to winning." He gestured
behind himself. "At this end of the field we have five men
down, three dead, and two badly wounded. At the other
end I have two wounded men and seven Haladina dead.
Had I not been aware of what was happening, I would
have helped my men finish off the raiders before coming to
speak with you."

"I am impressed."

"As I am with you. Now, about the sand."

148    Michael A. Stackpole

Gena sighed heavily. "I improvised with a spell used to
enchant arrows to carry further from bows. It expands the
time during which they accelerate from release to leaving
the bow. My mistake came in that the spell is normally
used on a dozen arrows or so, hence the requirement in
energy is low. In my use, which was sloppy and hasty, each
grain of sand became an arrow. While each required less
energy than an arrow, there were far more of them." Look-
ing down at her hands, she laughed. "If my hands were
bigger, I could have killed myself."

"Can you ride? We can stay here if you need to rest."

"I will be fine after a moment." Gena shook her head.
"Thank you."

"My duty, honor, and pleasure. Lady Genevera."

One of the bodyguards came over and stood beside Ber-
engar. "Begging pardon, m'lord, but you left two alive. Do
you want me to take care of them?"

"If you please, yes, Darrian."

Gena looked up. "I can still help heal, if you wish. I am
getting my strength back."

Berengar shook his head. "Darrian will finish them, not
patch them up."

"Kill them?"

"Yes. If I take them prisoner, I have to feed them. They
will provide me with no useful information. If ransomed,
their parole will be worthless because they wiil come back
at me." Berengar frowned heavily. "I know it seems bar-
baric—something from the time of Neal, perhaps—but the
only thing the Haladina understand is death. They are not
civilized. If you are to be understood, you must speak to
them in the manner which they will understand."

The count stood and walked over to where his men
dragged the Haladin bodies into a rough line. Gena won-
dered at how the man could order their deaths so casually,
then bother to kneel and straighten their limbs. Berengar
saw to it that each dead man's hands clutched his sword
hilt to his chest, after the usual manner of Haladin burial.
He did not allow his men to take the gems from their teeth
—both in burial and the lack of looting he paid the
Haladina more respect than Rik had.

Gena shivered again, but not from fatigue. She had long

Once a Hero   149

heard the argument about what the Haladina might or
might not understand, but before, it had always been di-
rected by members of the Consilliarii at Humanity as a
whole, not Just the Haladina. Though the discussion had
raged for centuries before her birth—had raged since the
time when the children of the gods saw fit to create Men—
as she had grown up, Berengar's ideological counterparts
among the Elves were seen as being trapped in the past,
They made up the majority of Elves who had chosen to
travel excedere and abandon the mortal world for the gods*
paradise.

She had often tried to understand their arguments, but
no one raised in her family could have agreed with them.
Gena did concede that Humanity often acted without fore-
thought and due consideration, but she argued often and
long that what might be seen as a racial trait did not in-
clude each and every Man. Those she most often debated
quickly learned to bait her by dismissing her points with
the phrase, "Neat Gustos Sylvanii aside . . ."

The shift in attitude among Elves concerning Men had
been far simpler to accomplish than changing Berengar's
mind would be. While it was true that since the time of
Neal, Men had not encroached on Elven territory, Beren-
gar saw the Hatadina as an immediate danger to his family
and his future. As one of her teachers had commented,
"The theory of a thing is often easier to comprehend than
the doing of it." The threat Berengar felt to family and
home from the raiders meant that he reacted in the most
direct and forceful way that he could to forestall and defeat
that threat.

She hugged her arms around herself and rubbed some
warmth into her upper arms. Berengar's concern for seeing
that the Haladina were buried marked him as more com-
plex than a man who hates solely on the basis of difference.
He respected the Haladina and their traditions. He did not
allow his men to defile their bodies. The graves they dug
might not be as deep as they would be for his own men,
nor would he raise a monument to mark them, but he
would not just leave them for the wolves, either. He hon-
ored his foes m defeat.

Gena stood up and wandered out to where Berengar

150    Michael A. Stackpole

examined the Haladin flashdrake. Though it had to have
been quite heavy, the count handled it easily and studied it
closely enough that he did not hear her approach. When
she came into his circle of vision, he looked up and smiled,
then frowned quickly and shook his head. "A horrible
weapon, this."

He held it out for her inspection. It looked to be as long
as Durriken was tall and had a pitted gray octagonal barrel
with a silver bead mounted on the tip as a sight. The stock
and foregrip had been made of the same type of wood, but
were in two pieces. Silver straps bound the foregrip to the
barret nearly halfway along its length. The stock, which
had been inlaid with bits of ivory and had a silver butt cap,
joined the barrel at the last quarter of its length and housed
the trigger and talon mechanism. The ramrod was missing,
but a hole drilled lengthwise in the foregrip and another at
the nose of the stock marked where it should have resided.

"I have witnessed the type of wounds they are capable
of inflicting, my lord. I would agree that they are horrible.
By the same measure, however, the wounds caused by an
arrow or crossbow bolt or even a sword are likewise horri-
ble."

"Yes, but their use requires skill and training." Beren-
gar brandished the gunne. "This requires no skill. There is
no honor in using it."

"I would imagine, my lord, that the first stick-wielding
man hit by a thrown rock uttered the same refrain."

Berengar laughed aloud. "A point well made and
deeply taken. I know Durriken uses flashdrakes, and I do
not mean to imply he has no honor- His are Dwarven. His
possession of them is a mark of respect of him by the
Dwarves and, from what I understand, their respect takes a
great deal of earning. This, on the Other hand, is a poorly
constructed Haladin imitation. Had you not quenched the
fire in it, it likely would have exploded in the Haladina's
face."

He looked ready to break it and bury it, but Gena
stopped him. "I believe, my lord, if we bring it back to
Durriken, he might be able to tell us something about it. It
could be important, especially if more than one in a dozen
Haladina are supplied with them."

Once a Hero   151

"That is a good idea." Berengar dispatched two of his
men to round up the Haladina horses while the others fin-
ished digging the graves with the steel caps taken from two
of the dead raiders. Berengar took his turn digging, which
surprised and pleased Gena.

The burying of the dead and the ride back to Aurdon
proved quiet work, and Gena did nothing to prompt con-
versation. She let her body regain its strength on the ride
back, and the leisurely pace the group adopted guaranteed
the sun would set an hour or two before they made it back
to the city. She suggested stopping for the night at Lake
Orvir, but Berengar vetoed her idea, pointing out that stop-
ping at the unused manor house would raise great alarm
among those people expecting them back in Aurdon.

She quickly imagined Rik's reaction and bowed to Ber-
engar's wisdom. He reassured her that despite the string of
Haladin horses making them look like a caravan of horse
traders bound for the city, he expected no more trouble.
"We will be home soon enough, m'lady, hale, hearty, and
for your part, I hope, rested."

As she rode, she watched Berengar and slowly inte-
grated the different pieces and sides of him she had seen.
From her earliest meeting with him, she knew him to be
well mannered, gracious, handsome, and a student of folk-
lore. Of his intelligence there was no doubt at all. His sum-
mons told her he was concerned for his family and for the
people of Aurdon. The way he treated Rik marked his gen-
erosity, and his harshness in dealing with Waldo paralleled
her own dislike for the little man.

In battle he was a worthy heir to the Red Tiger, match-
ing the legendary leader in size, coloration, and demeanor.
In the sparring match she had witnessed on her arrival in
Aurdon, she had seen a man quite skilled in all the finer
points of dueling. At the Haladin camp he had proved sm-
gularly efficient at killing—a remorseless and implacable
foe. Even so he had shown respect for his enemies, honor-
ing them as valiant combatants, not treating them as soon-
to-be-carrion.

Fitting all the pieces together, Gena found herself
comparing each against a standard she had not realized she
held in her mind. At first she thought she might be judging

152    Michael A. Stackpole

him in comparison to Durriken, but were that so, she knew
she would find stranger and greater differences than she
did. She also knew that Durnken would appear, in many
ways, to be the lesser of the two men, and she knew that
was not true, for there was no real way to compare them.

But if she was not comparing Berengar to Durriken,
who was she using to measure him? Not the Red Tiger. She
knew next to nothing about him. He was a footnote to the
adventures of her grandfather and Neal Custos Sylvanii.
Neal? She knew that was the right answer to her question,
but it struck her as wrong as well. She only knew Neal
from legends and songs—no man could compare favorably
with a legend.

Despite that impossibility, Berengar fought hard. He
showed the same willingness to pitch in and help his men
that had made so many loyal to Neal. They both were
intelligent and fierce fighters, and they both had long ca-
reers fighting the Haladina. Each man thought about more
than )ust himself, and did things to stabilize not only his
time but the future.

They are much alike. Gena shook her head. Js there
anything Neal did that Berengar could not do?

It took her a moment, but when she thought of it, she
found she could not replace her mental image of Neal with
that of Berengar in the same position. A little laugh escaped
her, and she felt relieved that in the twilight no one could
see her blush. "No," she whispered to herself, "no, you are
far too proud. Count Berengar Fisher, to have survived
admittance to CygestoHa.'*

Chapter 10

The Magick of Love

-X

Late Summer

Reign of the Red Tiger Year 1

Five Centuries Ago

My Thirty-fifth Year

The first things I saw were her eyes. Larissa met my stare
openly, yet not defiantly nor haughtily. She appeared as
surprised at our meeting as I was. In that first unguarded
moment I saw something flash through her hazel eyes, a
light I expected to be covered quickly by a superior disdain
or a frightened withdrawal.

The light blossomed in her large eyes to accompany the
smile growing on her face. While her features were unmis-
takably and sharply Sylvan, from the pointed tips of ears
Jutting up from thick golden hair to her eyes, cheekbones,
and }aw, the smile softened them. It made her more a vixen
than a distant and cold sylvanestt. It would have been easy
to read in her eyes and smile an invitation—an invitation I
desperately wanted to see but knew she would not offer
and one I could never presume to accept.

My mind echoed with the words Aarundel spoke in
Aurium concerning how I would know I had met my True

154    Michael A. Stackpole

Love. My heart pounded in my chest with the force of a
giant's footfalls. My stomach did not so much clench as it
felt as if Shijef had bitten half of it away. I wanted to speak,
but words would not come to my mind, and breath stayed
dead in my lungs. I wanted to turn away, to stop staring,
but my muscles would not obey me. I could do nothing.

Nothing but return her smile.

She had stopped, Larissa had, a dozen feet in front of
me. As tail as I am, she looked as lithe and slender as
Marta, but she was to Marta as a woman is to a bare slip
of a girl. While Marta had certainly been beautiful to look
upon, there was something about Larissa that made me
want to study her and memorize her. I wanted to possess
her, not just physically, but mentally and emotionally and
spiritually as well.

This realization collided directly with all the instruction
I had been given in Elven custom. It collided with my mem-
ories of the Eldsaga. Part of me wanted to dismiss this
longing as nothing more than lust. Though the blue-grey
homespun gown she wore was meant for riding and
woods-walking, it nonetheless flattered her. Broad shoul-
ders tapered down to a narrow waist and flat stomach. Her
hips curved into long tegs, and as the breeze molded the
skirts to her legs, I could see by her muscles that she was no
soft palace creature.

Another part of me screamed that any thoughts, any
wild fantasies I might construct around us, were sheer in-
sanity. Though she appeared to be ten years my Junior in
age, she had to be centuries older than I was. I could be of
no more interest to her than a child is to me. The fact that I
was her brother's friend meant she noticed me. To expect
anything beyond that, to dare interpret any sign as some-
thing significant, would lead to my death and her disgrace.

All the while these thoughts battled back and forth
through my brain, my smile grew. I knew two things as
absolute truths that I accepted as easily as I accepted the
certainty of the dawn or of my bleeding when cut. The first
was that I had met my vitamoresti and that I was doomed
by our meeting. The second was that the only thing that
could save me would be her turning away and rejecting me.

Once a Hero   IS5

If she did that, I knew I would go mad, but madness I could
handle.

Her smile grew in counterpart to mine, and I knew I
was lost.

Aarundel slapped me on the shoulder. "Despite his lack
of elocution, Larissa, Neal is a very intelligent and enter-
taining man. And a warrior without human equal."

"So I would expect of a warrior who succeeded in de-
feating death and wresting Divisator from Jammaq." She
bowed her head respectfully, breaking eye contact for the
first time- "I am honored to meet you, Custos Sylvanii."

Her looking down released me from whatever spell had
paralyzed my brain, body, and tongue—and I marked her
strength at having been able to look away. "The honor is
mine, Doma Larissa,'* I clipped my words off as I killed the
urge to step forward to take her hand and raise it to my
lips. I wanted to say something else, to compliment her, but
our races stood so far apart that even the most innocent
comment, offered lightly as a jest, could be taken as a mor-
tal insult.

While my restraint pleased me, it was made all that
more difficult by the realization that Larissa had uncon-
sciously freed her right hand from the basket she carried to
permit me the common courtesy of kissing her hand. She
shifted the half-filled basket from her left hand to right
forearm and refused to look up at me. Instead she shifted
her gaze to the side, then up and back to look at Aarundel.

"Our kith and kin await you at Woodspire, my
brother." She smiled at him and nodded toward Marta.
"Go, the two of you. Take my horse so you both may ride.
I will conduct Neal to the city."

For all the caution Aarundel had shown in speaking to
me of the consequences of contact with a sylvanesti, he
abandoned his sister to me without a second thought, I
could not blame him, for Marta's presence distracted him
greatly. Moreover, he saw Larissa as his sister, making the
mistake of placing her in a gender other than female. I had
seen that problem with all manner of males, and I dearly
wished Aarundel would not fall prey to it, because I was
not certain I was worthy of the trust he was showing in me.

As Aarundel and Marta mounted up and rode off down

156   Michael A. StackpoU

the road leading deeper into the woods of Cygestolia, I
turned to watch them depart. "Your brother is very fortu-
nate. He has a beautiful fiancee and a kind, considerate
sister."

"Considerate?" She laughed lightly, likewise turning to
watch them ride away from us. "You draw conclusions
from very little evidence, Custos Sylvanh."

My eyes sharpened as I looked down. "I don't believe
so. Lady Larissa. You spoke to your brother in Mantongue,
even adopting words that are not derived from the Sylvan
language, to send him off. You referred to your family
home as Woodspire, when I know it is more properly ren-
dered Conussilva. And you refer to me as Elfward, even
though the title your brother conferred upon me has not
been ratified by the Consilliarii."

"You are easily as intelligent as my brother has re-
ported." Again she laughed throatily. "And as intelligent as
Finndali has often complained you are."

"Not really intelligence, my Lady, just animal cun-
ning." I smiled, not daring to face her. "If you wish, I will
carry the basket for you on our walk."

"That is a kind offer."

She started to extend it toward me, but I shook my
head. "It will be a pleasure to serve you, but I have been
well warned about my conduct. Perhaps if you set the bas-
ket down and step away from it, I can save both of us
difficulties."

Larissa did as I requested, moving away from the bas-
ket with a fluid elegance thai threatened to birth fantasies
about the two of us moving together so effortlessly. I
reached down, scooped the woven basket up by its wooden
handle, and smiled. "I'll try not to touch any of the plants
you have gathered lest I make them unclean."

"Your grasp of our traditions is admirable."

I laughed. "Some things were made admirably clear to
me on the journey here."

"Excellent." She paced beside me, easily matching her
strides to mine. "Then you have a full understanding of
why we, you and I, are doomed beyond any hope of re-
demption."

Her statement, made so conversationally as to have

Once a Hero   157

been a remark about the sunny day, took my breath away.
I stopped dead in my tracks and shook my head. I doubted
that I had heard her words, deathly afraid that whatever
she had actually said had been translated into what I had
wanted to hear in my head. "I beg your pardon."

She walked on past me, then looked back over her
shoulder. "When were you born, Neal Roclawzi?"

I blinked and started after her. "Thirty-five years ago."

"The date, what was the day?"

I shivered. "Midsummer's Eve, beneath the Triangle."
At my birth all three moons had been full and arranged so
the smallest stood midway between, and above, the other
two. That omen, which occurred only once in every two
and a half centuries, had been taken for ill or good depend-
ing upon which soothsayer had spoken last. Many,
Aarundel included, had used it as a sign that I was marked
for greatness, but I generally considered it a fell sign.

Larissa nodded slightly, sunlight riding the waves in her
golden hair. "We share that, then, though my nativity came
two hundred and fifty years before your own."

I arched an eyebrow at her back. "Is that why . . . ?"

She shrugged and waited for me. "It could well be the
reason we are doomed, but I doubt it is the reason we have
been brought together." Larissa smiled carefully, thought-
fully, and clasped her hands together over her stomach.
"What you felt, Neal, when you saw me was but an echo
of what I felt when I saw you."

"How? How is it possible?" I gestured wildly with my
arms, spilling half the basket's contents. I squatted immedi-
ately and started to gather things up, and Larissa did the
same. "I am a Man and you are sylvanestil This cannot
be."

She shook her head. "Even the Eldsaga tells of unions
between Elf and Man."

"Rape and lust have nothing to do with love."

"True, but if those can exist, why not love?" She caught
me with her eyes again, and I could not muster a counter to
her argument. "And if love can exist, why not the greatest
of love, why not vitamor?"

I broke away from her stare, then found myself watch-
ing her delicate, long-fingered hands plucking leaves and

158 Michael A. Stackpole

flowers from the road dust- I longed to reach out, to hold
her hands in mine. Inside I found myself willing to die for
that pleasure, but utterly unwilling to destroy her with my
selfishness.

And in that I found the proof that she was absolutely
correct in her reasoning.

"No, no, this cannot be happening." I stood, my fists
clenched in frustration and disbelief. "You cannot feel any-
thing for me. I am Man. I am Roclawzi!"

"Why can you, a Roclawzi, feel something for me, and
not the reverse?" Larissa rose as well, leaving the basket on
the ground between us. "My people rode yours down. You
should hate me."

"You did not ride with them; you were not yet born at
the time of the Eldsaga." I shook my head. "I have no
reason to hate you."

She smiled triumphantly. "If you have no reason to hate
me, then I have no reason to hate you." She raked her hair
back and across, away from her face. "In you I find the
greatest love."

Conflicting emotions raced back and forth through me.
I felt the buoyant euphoria that comes with love, and part
of me wanted to sweep her up in my arms regardless of the
consequences. I realized I had begun to cycle through the
same desire from which I had broken free moments before,
so I ruthlessly overrode it. Even so, as when all the water is
scooped from a muddy hole, bright and cheerful emotions
slowly started filtering back into me. Before I filled again, I
possessed a clarity of mind that I determined to employ
immediately, before it was lost to me.

"Lady Larissa," I began slowly as I bent to retrieve the
basket, "you must see how impossible this is. Even if I
allow that what I feel is not some residue of the remarkable
journey I have taken, and even if I allow that you feel what
I do, that we, together, feel what your brother and Marta
feel for each other, our situation is hopeless."

She nodded in agreement quite emotion lessly. "This I
do see, Neal of the Roclaws. I also see I cannot deny what
has passed between us."

I shook my head. Somehow we both moved into the eye
of the emotional storm surrounding us. As we walked

Once a Hero   159

through the forest toward Cygestolia, the world around us
melted away. I found myself aware of nothing save her
words, her face, the rustle of her gown as she walked
along. Even as those things enchanted me, I stripped away
all but the cold logic of our conversation, and I wrestled
with it as if grappling with some abstraction of Dreel fury.

"I want to know you, Larissa, leam about you. I want
everything promised by your smile and the fire in your
eyes- I want to know what makes you laugh and cry. I
want to know how you can view this with such calm, and I
want to know how your strength can keep me from going
mad." I laughed briefly, forcing tension from me and into
the sound. "I want the knowledge of you that I have of
myself, and while the thought of succeeding in my quest to
gain it pleases me, I dread that success."

"Because of the consequences imposed by Sylvan law?"

"No." I felt a chill run down my spine. "No, because I
am afraid I would lose myself in you and our cultures
would destroy us."

Larissa reached out and caught the handle of the bas-
ket. "Then you know my fear. And you know my hopes."

Though mere inches separated our hands, and our fin-
gers could have touched without effort, almost by accident,
neither one of us made that accident happen. I realized in
that instant that what we were talking about was more
than sexual. It was more than just lust or emotional hun-
ger. Without knowing how I knew it, I recognized in
Larissa another part of me. She was my complement. It felt
as if the gods had torn us apart eons ago. They cast her into
a sylvanesti body born beneath the Midsummer's Eve Tri-
angle, and then, as an afterthought, they planted me in a
Rociawzi body born under the same sign centuries later.
Whether by malice to ensure our destruction, or by com-
passion, thinking we would never meet, they had kept us
apart.

And now, united by chance, yet other things conspired
to keep us apart.

The realization that I wanted more than mere physical
union with her set aside carnal desires. I wanted all that she
was, which meant that physical concerns amounted to only
a small portion of what I meant to explore. Once I knew

160    Michael A. Stackpole

her emotionally, spiritually, and intellectually, then the
other would and could be important. Indulging sexual
urges would have parted us once again, and I determined,
at that moment, that nothing and no one would ever do
that while I had breath in my lungs and blood in my veins.

I glanced over at her and smiled. "I'm thinking we are
in serious trouble."

"More so than you know." She returned my smile, and
my heart felt ready to burst. "Until this day I have been
sleepwalking through my life. Now I am awake and alive."

Nervous, giddy laughter exploded from me. "Exactly."

Her smile shrank a bit into a satisfied smirk, then she
bowed her head and extended her left hand forward. "It is
my pleasure, Neal Roclawzi, to present to you the city of
Cygestolia."

I have no doubt, given the way my heart beat in my
chest and my smile peaked up near my eyes, that anything
she had shown me would have been magnificent. The Syl-
van metropolis exceeded that by a league or three. As ugly
and forbidding as was jammaq, so did Cygestolia feel sa-
cred enough to have been the womb of the world itself.

The city stretched down and out through a wooded,
serpentine valley. Flashing like a quicksilver ribbon, a crys-
talline stream bisected the valley north and south, yet
pooled into an azure lake in the center. Islands studded the
lake and provided enough ground to support huge, ancient
trees. While I did see stones of all sizes, shapes, and hues
throughout the landscape, none had been used as building
material. They were decoration, and rare was the rock that
was not home to moss or a flowering plant growing from a
crevasse or recess.

In the coastal jungles of Najinda I had seen villages
built on stilts and others constructed high in the jungle
bowers. Until I saw Cygestolia, I had thought of the
Najindese as living in the trees. I immediately realized I had
been far too generous in my thoughts, for the Najindese
lived among the trees.

The Elves lived in the trees and with the trees. A dark-
green canopy covered entirely the city precincts on either
wall of the valley. The canopy broke over the stream and
around the lake, allowing for enough sunlight to strike the

Once a Hero   161

lake shore and promote some agriculture. The island-based
trees ail grew together to form a green mushroom structure
over the center of the lake. Long branches on the central
trees grew out like spokes from the island hub and joined
with similar branches from the trees on the valley walls.

From where I stood everything seemed normally pro-
portioned; then I noticed people walking along the
branches, passing high above the lake's mirror surface,
from the island outward and vice versa. At that point I
realized I had misjudged the whole city, for it was much
larger and more titanic than I had first imagined. Whereas
among the Na|indese a tree would house a single family,
the entire population of Aurium could have taken refuge in
just one of the Cygestolian giants.

Larissa gestured toward the city casually, as if dis-
missing the vision, though I caught the way pride in it lifted
her chin. "It may look a thicket to you, Neal, but it is
simple to navigate. Trees, as you can see, are grouped in
districts, as befits good growth, and are named after their
most prominent feature. Conussilva, for example, is lo-
cated in the Seven Pines district."

"Pinusseptem. Aarundel told me." I smiled. "The city is
gorgeous."

I followed one branch as it led back into the trunk. Side
branches provided a screen of foliage, but I saw where an
Elf entered through a hole in the bark. Above and below
that level I saw other openings and spied Elves moving
through the trees like a line of ants. If each tree housed
only a dozen Elves, there had to be hundreds of thousands
of them, and that seemed all the more remarkable because
they all gathered in this one spot instead of, as Men and the
Reithrese had done, spreading out over the face of the
world.

Larissa tugged on the basket. "We should go on to
Woodspire. Your arrival was not expected, but it was not
unanticipated. We have lodging for you and even for the
Dreel."

I looked around to see if Shijef had been following us,
but I did not see him. As I turned back to face the city, a
half-dozen hooded Sylvan warriors slipped from the brush
before us. Larissa did not seem concerned and did not re-

162    Michael A. Stackpole

lease the basket, so I let it go. The Elves bore longbows and
two had arrows nocked. One of the Elves stepped forward
as the others spread out in a semicircle behind him. His
face hidden by the hood, the leader said something in
Elven, and I recognized it as a challenge from the tone,
though the words meant nothing to me.

Larissa laughed and let the basket swing innocently in
her right hand as she approached the leader. "Who am I? I
would have thought the answer to that question would be
obvious to you."

The leader nodded toward-Larissa and allowed her to
approach him as he turned and challenged me again.
"What Man dares enter Cygestolia?"

I smiled, perhaps too broadly—like a newbeard-boy
trying to impress his first love—and let a growl enter my
voice. "I am Neal Roclawzi, Leader of the Steel Pack, Killer
of Tashayu!, Bearer of Divisator and named Custos
Sytvanii by Aarundel Imperator. I have come as his guest
for his marriage."

"Beneath the grime you are hard to recognize." The
leader bowed his head. "You may pass, Neal Roclawzi."

Larissa, having reached the leader's side, frowned impa-
tiently. "So formal? That's hardly like you." She reached
up and tugged down his hood. Fine black hair framed a
face I thought I recognized. "He is a guest, treat him as
such."

I squinted at the Elven leader. "Imperator FinndaH?"

He nodded and Larissa laughed. "Yes, Neal, this Sylvan
warrior suddenly struck dumb is Finndali. Imperator and"
—her eyes flashed dangerously at me—"he who is my hus-
band."

Chapter 11

Intrigues in the City

x

Early Spring
A.R. 499
The Present

Though they arrived back in Aurdon near midnight, the
Fisher estate appeared as active and alive as if it were mid-
day. This struck Genevera as odd until Berengar pointed
out that farmers had begun to bring in shipments of winter
wheat that required warehousing, resale, and shipment to
points downriver. "Commerce seldom allows one time to
rest."

Gena nodded. "An idle merchant is a starving mer-
chant."

"Bravol" Berengar helped her down from Spirit. "You
are recovered from the ordeal?"

"I am, my lord, thank you." She half curtsied to him.
"Shall we take the gunne to Durriken?"

Berengar frowned for a moment. "I am certain Dur-
riken would prefer, at this hour, after this absence, to greet
you in private. I must report to my father and uncles what
we have seen and done. If you wish, we can delay his ex-
amination of the weapon until morning."

164    Michael A. Stackpole

"Can we afford the delay?"

"You are correct, of course. It might be unwise to take
that liberty. An hour, then?" Berengar smiled encourag-
ingly as they mounted the steps to the mansion entrance.
"That would allow me to escape my kin after a short time,
which I would prefer to do. Awakening them will not put
them in a good humor, and I doubt the news will improve
their disposition."

"An hour, then." Gena turned and worked her way
through the building's maze of corridors to the door of her
chamber. She knocked lightly, first twice, then once, then
three times, in a signal pattern that Durriken had taught
her. She waited a heartbeat or two after the end of the
knocking, then opened the door.

Durriken sat in the bed, one candle burning, with a
flashdrake propped on a sheet-shrouded knee and pointed
at the door. As she entered, he tipped the weapon toward
the ceiling. "It is good that you knocked, for I had fallen
asleep waiting for you."

"I know better than to surprise you in your sleep."

"Especially here in Aurdon, for there are many, many
surprises about." He set the flashdrake down on the bed-
side table and folded the sheet back on her half of the bed.
"Was your ride of interest?"

"I believe you would consider it 'remarkable-'" Gena
swung the door shut, then crossed to one of the chairs and
leaned heavily on it. "Count Berengar will be here within
the hour to show you a longgunne taken from a Haladin
raider."

"Are you hurt?" Rik stood and swirled the sheet
around himself, looping it around his body and up over his
right shoulder. "One raider implies many more."

"A dozen, and, no, I am not hurt, though I am still a bit
tired." She came around and sat down. She said nothing as
Rik poured her a cup of wine, then pulled a chair up and
sat facing her with their knees touching. Gena obligingly
drank, then set the cup down on the table. "I cast spells in
haste and suffered for it."

"From the beginning, Gena."

She sat back and drank again, then told Rik all about
the journey and the ambush. She sensed an irritation in Rik

Once a Hero   165

whenever she mentioned Berengar, but she knew him bet-
ter than to imagine it to be jealousy. Rik managed to re-
main near neutral as she described the elaborate lengths to
which the Count had gone to keep the goal of their expedi-
tion secret. His attitude definitely soured as she described
tfae ambush.

"Berengar should have been more watchful."

Gena shrugged. "This is true, but we were to link up
with Waldo and his people at the camp- When we arrived,
it appeared that Haladina had departed quickly when they
discovered Waldo's men in the area."

"Only to double back and ambush you."

"Which is not Berengar's fault." Gena took Rik's hands
in her own. "He was as much at risk as the rest of us—
more, since they devoted nearly half their force to killing
him."

"That does put a different complexion on things." Rik
sat back, slipping his hands from her grasp. His left arm
went around his chest and his right hand cupped his chin.
"There is more going on here in Aurdon than Berengar has
told us, I think. I had thought him the person orchestrating
things, but this indicates he is but a pawn and expend-
able."

"What do you mean?"

Rik leaned forward again and dropped his voice to a
conspiratorial whisper. "I went about in Aurdon today,
into the lower rings. I wandered and listened a great deal. It
seems, from what I heard bandied about among those who
are not Fishers or Riverens, the battling between the two
clans is cyclical. It usually begins as some son of trade war,
with each side undercutting the other until one begins to
bleed gold. At that point the tactics escalate into sabotage.
That means anything from arson to thievery. Everyone
knows who is doing it and why it is being done, and the
families are scrupulous in seeing to it that no one gets hurt
physically."

Gena made no attempt to conceal her surprise. "I
thought Men set great store in the saying, 'Cut off the head
and the snake dies.' "

"Oh, we do, but both families greatly fear Neal's inter-
. vention. Berengar didn't tell us the half of the difficulties

166    Michael A. Stackpole

assassins have had over the years. Each one of the cycles
eventually rises to the point where someone tries to kill
someone else. The would-be murderer always runs afoul of
his own plans, and Neal is always implicated. I think, now,
that they look for Neal a bit too hard, hence they see his
ghost in everything. If a bird flew over and a feather fell
from a wing and caused the murderer to die of a sneezing
fit, someone would note that some story had Neal possess-
ing or shooting or admiring a bird like that."

"They find obscure facts to justify their fears."

"So it seems. These cycles tend to run one per genera-
tion and a half. In that time, enough people forget the con-
sequences of the last one, and enough new people have
come of age to imagine they can be Just that one step
smarter than any of their ancestors."

Gena frowned. "Do you think that is what Berengar is
doing?"

"I don't know. I thought it possible, but two factors
play against it. The first is the fact that he could have died
in the ambush. He is no fool, and if he were as ambitious as
those before him, he would never have put himself in the
sort of danger he faced today. Moreover, he never would
have allowed you, his key to success, to be risked."

Rik narrowed his eyes. "That line of thinking, of
course, is new. What had made me think Berengar is being
truthful is that the Riverens really are trading with the
Haladina. There is a small Haladin section of town, and
trade there is brisk. The Riverens hit upon a strategy that
works perfectly for both the Haladina and themselves. The
Riverens brought a number of Haladin artisans into the
city and set them to the task of creating Haladin fabrics
and jewelry with new fibers and materials. Whereas the
Haladina had never seen silk before, their people are work-
ing with it now. As a result you can purchase a silk cloak
woven and colored in traditional Haladin ways."

Gena smiled. "They have created a unique item that the
Haladina themselves cannot produce on their own."

"And which Centisian artisans cannot easily march.
The Riverens then gave a great deal of these products to
their trading partners up and down the river. Because the
items were rare and bestowed as gifts, they had an added

Once a Hero   167

value. They became very fashionable and highly sought af-
ter. The Riverens started selling these new wares and have
a very hungry audience waiting for them.

"The net result is that the Riverens are slowly outstrip-
ping the Fishers. While the families were equal and united,
Neal's vow helped maintain the balance. The alliance with
the Haladina has given the Riverens an advantage. If the
Riverens were to tell their trading partners that they will
get no more Haladin wares unless they stop trading with
the Fishers, the Fishers would be badly hurt."

"Why haven't the Riverens done this already?"

Rik spread both of his hands wide and shrugged. "I
don't know. I believe Neal may be part of it—a couple of
the Riveren elders are real metaphysicians, and they are
arguing that cutting the Fishers off from trade would kill
them, unleashing Neal's wrath upon the family. I suspect
the Riverens will slowly start to cut off trade in small
towns first and see what happens."

Gena finished the last of her wine, savoring the dryness.
"K the Riverens are being that cautious with trade tactics,
would they be pushing the Haladina to raid throughout
Centisia?"

"That question assumes that the Riverens control the
Haladina. The Haladina may be one people, but they spend
more time fighting each other than they do fighting outsid-
ers. The fact that Haladina are living in Aurdon may just
have reminded others that the world does not end at the
edge of their desert. While it is persuasive to suggest that
the Haladina are raiding to help their kinsmen in the city, I
have no evidence of that. Tomorrow, on the other hand,
may change that whole situation."

"Tomorrow?"

"I'm going to look around in the Haladin district."

Dread coiled in her stomach. "Is that wise?"

"I am not worried." He jerked a thumb back over his
shoulder at the bedside table. "The Haladin community is
quite peaceful, and I have my flashdrakes to keep me out of
trouble." He brought his hand down and tapped the ring
Berengar had given him against the table. "And I even have
the rank needed to keep them."

"I hope both keep you safe."

168    Michael A. Stackpole

"I'd trust more in the flashdrakes than this rank." Rik
smiled carefully. "Lord Orvir died in a riding accident four
years ago. It happened about the time the Riverens had
started trading with the Haladina. The Fishers claim he
broke his neck when his horse didn't make it over a stone
fence. They say he was being pursued by Haladin raiders.
Others say he was riding away from Neal*s ghost, an idea
which carries with it a whole host of complications."

Gena reached out and caressed his cheek with her right
hand. "You will be careful?"

Rik kissed her palm. "More so than you can even imag-
ine."

A knock at the door interrupted what might otherwise
have ended up in bed. As Gena rose to answer the door,
Rik left through the passage into the adjoining suite.
Swinging the door wide open, she invited Berengar in and
waved him to a chair. "Wine?"

"No, thank you." The count looked around the room
as he sat down, then rested the longgunne on the table.
"Durriken is here, yes?"

Before she could reply, Rik returned from the other
room wearing a pair of breeches and carrying a small cylin-
drical canvas parcel. "Good evening, my Lord." Rik set the
parcel on the table and untied the string binding it shut. As
he unrolled it, the weak candlelight reflected brightly from
the silvery tools he revealed.

Gena lit and brought two candles to the table as Rik
picked the gunne up and examined it. "There is a charge in
the barrel, Rik. I quenched the fire with a spell."

"Ah, so it did work!" Setting the weapon down, Rik
pulled a small flat-bladed screwdriver from one of the can-
vas pockets in his tool kit. Using it like a pry bar, he
worked it under the strip of metal running over the barrel
and around the stock. Warping the metal slightly, he man-
aged to ease the band forward to where the stock nar-
rowed; then it came off easily.

Rik asked Berengar to anchor the stock- Carefully jig-
gling the barrel, Rik loosened it and slid it from the groove
cut into the stock. Keeping it tipped up so none of the
powder would spill out, he freed it from the stock and
indicated with a nod that the count could return the stock

Once a Hero   169

to the table. Rik lowered the barrel to the floor, muzzle
first, and leaned it against the table.                     ,

He exchanged his screwdriver for a wooden probe that
had been whittled flat at one end. He dug it into the breech
end of the barrel and smiled- "Most of the charge is here.
You worked very quickly, Gena."

"She saved my life."

"Possibly."

"I saw what happened. There is no question of it."

Rik nodded as he dug some of the unburned powder
out of the barrel and placed it in the palm of his left hand.
"Coarse ground and poorly mixed, with too much char-
coal and not enough nitre." He nicked his hand toward
one of the candles, and the mixture flashed as it flew
through the flame. A white thread of smoke rolled up
toward the ceiling while a few sparks landed on the other
side of the candle. "At the range Gena described, the bullet
would have hit you, but not terribly hard."

"You mean it might have gone halfway through, not all
the way?"

"Exactly."

"Forgive me if I do not find that much comfort."

Rik laughed. "Forgive me for being so callous. I have
undertaken a study of what effects flashdrakes have on
their targets." He ran his thumbnail around inside the rim
of the breech. "Just as well he had poor powder, the metal
has started to fracture. One full charge or two and this
gunne would have exploded."

Berengar smiled and looked up at Gena. "Is that not
what I told you?"

"It is indeed, my lord."

"Which is precisely why we restrict these things here in
Aurdon." The count tapped a finger against the gunne's
silver butt-cap. "I gather you are not impressed with this
weapon?"

"I believe you have archers who are more of a threat
than anyone armed with one of these. It is poorly made and
poorly supplied with powder. It is likely more a status sym-
bol among the Haladina than anything else. Its being found
in the possession of a Haladin raider would not alarm me,

170    Michael A. Stackpole

especially"—Rik nodded toward Gena—"with so able a
mage as an ally."

The count smiled in agreement.t<! already owe her my
life. If things go as planned, my family and Aurdon will be
in her debt as well."

"X

Chapter 12

A City That Intrigues

_x

Late Summer

Reign of the Red Tiger Year 1

Five Centuries Ago

My Thirty-fifth Year

Larissa's statement caught me by surprise and, in retro-
spect, should have sunk into my heart like a dagger. I am
not entirely certain why it did not. I would have thought
the giddy feeling in my chest would vanish, sucked down
into a sinkhole of pain, but that did not happen. The good
feeling lingered, blunted a bit, but still there, nourished by
Larissa's smile and utter lack of deceptiveness-

A philosopher or poet would likely go on about his
emotional turmoil, or agonize over the lack of same, were
he in my position. I had already determined that we would
never consummate our love. That physical union was un-
important to me and avoiding it the only way I could be
certain that I would live and she would not be exiled by her
own people. In light of such considerations, the fact that
she was married made no difference at all. In fact, her mar-
riage might even allow her greater freedom, since the idea

172 Michael A. Stackpole

that she would cuckold an Imperator with a Man had to be
an outside possibility in the Sylvan mind.

I must also admit that the idea that Finndali's wife
loved me was intriguing. Finndali and I lost no love upon
each other, so any discomfort he felt when his wife was in
my company would not bother me at all. If it ever turned
out that I did not survive long enough to give Finndau an
accounting of my scars, the scar that Larissa's love for me
might leave on his heart would have to suffice as my re-
venge.

That sounds all cold and calculated. In fact all these
thoughts flashed through my brain like ghosts through a
haunted castle. Given my exhaustion and the fierce power
of love for Lanssa, the world had taken on an unreality
that made me wonder if everything was a dream or a night-
mare.

Larissa gave me no time for wondering. "Come along,
Custos Sylvanii, you are awaited at Woodspire." She
waved her left hand idly at the line of soldiers, and they
parted like light drapes before a breeze. I smiled at
Finndali, took away a scowl in the exchange, and followed
Larissa.

A few steps beyond the line I caught up with her again.
"I am surprised Finndali Imperator remembers me. We
have met only a time or three, and the last meeting must
have been a decade ago.'*

"The impression you created on those occasions has
kept you fresh in his mind. In the same way, my brother's
association with you—an obligation from which he was
released after Tashayul's death—has caused a great deal of
curiosity about you." She smiled easily as we moved into
the towering groves that were Cygestolia. "There are those
who believe you a powerful magus who has ensorcelled my
brother into slavery."

"And what do you believe?"

"I believe my brother is shrewd in his judgments of
Men and fortunate in his choice of friends."

Our conversation lapsed as we strolled into the city it-
self. Within its confines I learned the true immensity of the
settlement. Trees bigger around than Man-castles predomi-
nated, and the city existed on a number of levels. Those

Once a Hero   173

whose occupations demanded easy access to the ground—
farmers, herders, and soldiers, for example—were en-
sconced no more than thirty yards up. So the divisions
progressed every thirty yards or so, with ascetics, philoso-
phers, artists, and the mad dwelling so high up that their
homes swayed in the breeze and brushed the moons at
night.

When we reached Woodspire, it occurred to me that
each of the massive trees was akin to a Man-lord's castle
and the surrounding village, but instead of being spread
out, it spread up and beyond. The other trees in that sector
of the city were further holdings of the family who ruled
the area, just as other villages within a fief were owned by
the lord in charge of the county or barony.

We entered Woodspire at an opening between two
roots. The narrow entrance belied the enormity of the hol-
low within the tree. Inside, in a wooden cavern that tow-
ered a good twenty feet above the ground, horses had been
stabled and even some pigs had been penned. Elves moved
to and fro from the tree's core. Around the edges of the
cavern, where the floor had been dug down about ten feet
below ground level outside, I saw tunnels into which
grooms and swineherds were carting manure, presumably
to help sustain Woodspire.

As we entered, I wondered how such a huge tree could
survive with such a hollow at its base, but a moment's
observation answered that question for me. The first thing I
saw was that a central cylinder rose from the earth to sup-
port the heart of the tree. Since trees grow from the heart
out, as long as the center had not been worked or worn
away, the tree could continue living and growing. Given
the size of Woodspire, the hollow's presence clearly had
not hurt it-

The tree's exterior had the normal amount of bark one
would expect on a titanic pine. The interior surface of the
tree had developed a thinner, almost transparent bark that
sealed and protected it. The faint stickiness I felt when I ran
my hand over it made me mindful of sap or varnish, and
the inner bark also reminded me of birch-bark because of
how it curled up in a couple of spots-

Larissa noticed my interest in the tree's interior surface

174    Michael A. Stackpole

as we walked toward the central core. "The trees are main-
tained by two groups; the woodwives and woodwnghts.
The former use their skills to heal damage done by pest,
storm, or disease to the trees. With their skills and magicks
they help the tree repair itself. The woodwrights shape the
tree and coax it mto all manner of shapes and configura-
tions. Where a stonemason might carve a gargoyle from a
block of stone, a woodwnght facilitates growth into that
same sort of pattern."

As she spoke, we drew closer to the central core of the
tree. "Woodspire is two thousand years old and has been
possessed by my family for all that time. It is not the eldest
of holdings in Cygestolia, but it is one of the most elegant."
She smiled carefully. "And the first to host a Man."

She stopped before one of many cylinders faintly visible
through the crystal-bark. Where she touched the core, a
dark circle began to spread out. It grew as wide as the
cylinder, then extended up and down about half again that
distance, forming a lozenge-shaped opening into the cylin-
der. Above and below, floor and ceiling, I saw amber disks.
She stepped through the opening and onto a disk and I
followed her example. Despite the cramped surroundings I
managed to refrain from touching her.

Lanssa caressed the interior of the cylinder, and it
closed down. I immediately began to feel uncomfortable
and cramped—though her presence did render the experi-
ence tolerable. When the opening closed completely, I felt a
lurch, then we slowly began to move upward. Raising my
right arm, I rapped a knuckle against the ceiling, then
smiled at Larissa. "This is crystallized pitch."

She nodded, with a sly grin on her lips. "As your body
has veins and arteries, so a tree has tubes through which
sap moves up and down. Woodwife magick makes it possi-
ble to move within these tubes. We do have a stairway
worked in the bark on the outside, but I thought you
would find this more interesting."

"Indeed." I stood up again. "So are you a woodwife?"

"No, though there is nothing ignoble about that profes-
sion. My gifts are directed elsewhere—I am a healer."

"Of animals?"

"Of living creatures, though I prefer mammals to liz-

Once a Hero   175

ards and fish. Had I been there when you collected any of
your wounds, you would not have scarred."

"Ah, but I collect scars the way others collect scalps or
prizes. They are my mementii hellicus. When it takes time
to heal, one has more to remember." I shrugged- "Besides,
were you to touch me to heal me, I would be slain, so your
handiwork would be wasted."

"Your point is well-taken." She laughed lightly. "I will
then offer my skills only if your horse or the Dreel needs
them."

"Your generosity is most kind and welcome."

Our ascent through the tree slowed and stopped. An-
other hole opened in the tube to allow us egress. When we
left it, the cylinder in which we had traveled slowly dis-
solved. The ceiling liquefied and descended toward the
floor. It melted away and rose up. Between them the twin
liquid fronts expelled the air from the tube. The inner bark
sealed itself over, and I found myself in a circular chamber
with a slightly rounded floor and a towering dome vault
above.

Lozenge doorways opened out of the two chamber
walls, defined on either side by dark bands within the
wood. I knew that they allowed access to other chambers
within the flesh of the tree, because I would have to cross
against growth-ring lines to reach the exterior, whereas
moving with them as they curved through the wood would
keep me on the same ring within the tree.

The woodwright's art is reflected in the two dominant
features of Sylvan architecture. Curves are everywhere.
While a Man would have created a room as a square, here
they were shaped from circles and cylinders, ovoids and
capsules. The same sort of twists and curves that gnarl
trees are reflected in the curious branching of corridors or
eccentric curves of alcoves and hideaways. As I followed
Larissa from the entry chamber through the turns of the
corridors, I marveled at the artistry of the woodwright who
had shaped it, but I was thinking that I was being worked
deep into a maze I could never unravel.

Woodwrights shape both the flesh of the tree in which
they live and wood that is used for furnishings. Because of
this it is possible to find in a white-pine chamber a full set

176    Michael A. Stackpole

of redwood furnishings. Woods are even fitted together so
that a cherry panel provides trim, or oak defines a doorway
in a cedar home. And, again, woodwrights are not limited
to simple concerns of functionality: ebony and cedar might
easily be combined to create a tiger stalking through a
room. All those decorations for which men use paint,
woodwrights accomplish with a rainbow of woods.

Nowhere did I see metal worked into the wood for util-
itarian or decorative purposes. Shelving and hinges were
grown in. Except where a polished silver mirror hung in an
alcove or an object of antiquity stood on a pedestal grown
up out of the floor, all the metal I saw came in the form of
jewelry on the Elves.

Interior lighting came from small alcoves and channels
at the upper reaches of the walls, where luminous mosses
glowed and splashed their light across the ceiling. In larger
chambers the same mosses were grown behind thin veneers
of wood to illuminate designs or just to provide more light.
While I did not feel any heat from the light, the whole
dwelling place felt warm.

Larissa led me to a grand chamber easily ten yards high
and half again that wide. Vaulting arches linked fluted
columns grown out of the walls, providing an illusory
strength that made me comfortable. I knew that the whole
tree was quite solid, but seeing features that I easily recog-
nized both put me at ease and made me wonder, somehow,
if they had been produced for my benefit. Given the way
they would have to have been created, I decided they were
not created for me alone.

That thought collided with another immediately.
Larissa said I was the first Man to set foot in Cygestolia. I
had no doubt she had told the truth, which meant her fam-
ily had planned, at some point, to create a room that a
Man would find familiar. The only reason to do that would
be to welcome a Man into their home. This made them
unlike most Elves, but I knew that from my association
with both Aarundel and Larissa.

A trio of Elves waited in the room to greet me. Larissa
set her basket down on an oaken table, then curtsied for-
mally. She spoke to them in Elven first, then turned toward
me and smiled. "These are my parents: Thralan Consilharii

Once a Hero   177

and my lady-mother Ashenah. And that is my grandfather,
Lomthelgar."

I bowed to Ashenah first, then to the two Sylvans. I
took a chance and bowed to Lomthelgar first, then
Larissa's father. The older Sylvan chuckled and commented
in Elven, but I could not understand him. Thralan returned
my bow formally, then smiled at me.

"The respect you have shown my father reflects welt
upon you."

"It is but a fraction of the respect I hold for Aarundel."

It took both of them a moment to decipher what I said.
Their not being used to Mantongue was less a problem
than my using the name Aarundel to refer to their son and
grandson. Because of the magick inherent in names, and
the magickal trouble that can be wrought if one knows a
person's name, Elves who travel the world, or who traffick
with people outside their own family, adopt a new name
for their journeys and affairs. That much Aarundel had
told me, but he had not revealed to me his true name. In
fact, I did not even know his family name.

Aarundel's parents looked to be only slightly older than
Larissa and her brother. Their flesh appeared as seamless as
Larissa's, and neither her father's golden hair nor the jet-
black of her mother showed any hints of white creeping in.
Their age, which I put at five centuries, only revealed itself
in their calm grace and formality.

I would not have known even where to begin to look
for signs of physical aging were it not for the presence of
Lomthelgar. His skin had started to cake on the consistency
of crystal-bark. The lines in his face gathered around the
corners of his eyes and stacked up on his forehead, though
an unruly mop of iron-gray hair half hid many of them- His
dark eyes remained bright and watched me carefully, but I
sensed no suspicion or distrust in his attention.

Thralan nodded easily after a moment. "Our son is
quite impressed with you—as evidenced by his bringing
you here. This room will be yours to use during your stay
here. The daybed there in the comer should serve you well.
Behind the screen is the lavabrium, where you may attend
to your personal needs."

"Thank you."

178    Michael A. Stackpole

Ashenah smiled graciously at me. "We will leave you
now so you may sleep. We know how tiring travel can be."

"You are most kind."

As they left the room, the weight of weariness crushed
down upon me. I dragged myself over to the daybed and
tugged my boots off. I tay down for just a moment, because
I fully intended to wash before sleeping, but found I could
not rise again. Sleep came swiftly, and I surrendered to it
heart and soul.

His breath only slightly sweeter than when we left
Aurium, Shijef awakened me. "They come." I heard no
urgency in his voice, but his prodding me with
Cleaveheart's hilt suggested trouble.

I shook my head to clear away the last of the sleep-
dregs. "How did you get here?"

"Here you were, here I came. Climbed, did I." Suddenly
self-conscious, he chewed at some sap matting fur between
the pads of his left forepaw. "At the master's feet the slave
is supposed to be. And bring things."

Concerned by the fact that in my half-awake state Dreel
logic made sense, I sat up just in time for Ashenah and
Lomtheigar to enter the room. The old Elf immediately
dropped to his haunches to study the Dreel at eye level,
while Ashenah looked at me above both of them. "You
must prepare yourself. You are to appear before the Consil-
liarii." When I did not move immediately, she added, "My
son needs you."

I vaulted over ShiJefs shoulder and slipped behind the
screen Thralan had indicated earlier. In the small cylindri-
cal enclosure 1 found a pedestal topped with a basin of
water, a larger wooden cistern suitable for bathing, and
what looked to be an ingrown lidded bucket for collecting
night soil. Lifting the lid, I saw the bucket had a bottom
made of amber just as had the conveyance that brought us
up from the ground. I made use of the device, then washed
quickly in the basin.

Returning to my chamber, I found that Ashenah had
gone away and the Dreel and Lomthetgar had reached
enough of a rapprochement to allow the elder Elf an op-

Once a Hero   179

portunity to pick through the luggage the Dreel had
brought for me. Lomtheigar tossed me a blue tunic
Aarundel had bought me in Polston and another pair of
trousers.

"Appropriate."

I nodded and quickly dressed myself. "Why the ur-
gency?"

"You are a Man." He shrugged. "And not a Man."

Lomthelgar's words came easily enough that I knew he
could have spoken volumes, but preferred to keep his own
counsel. "I'm ready. Are you leading the way?"

"Yes." He popped up to his feet and headed off into the
corridor maze with a speed that belied what I would have
expected from someone old enough to be Aarundel's
grandfather. Lomtheigar had to be at least three quarters of
a millennium old, yet he moved with the speed of someone
much younger. Even knowing that Elves do not age as do
Men, I did not expect to be led by an Elf who forced me to
hurry-

Lomthelgar led me from Woodspire out along a huge
branch to where it braided together with another tree.
Elves shied from me as if I were a leper while we passed,
but a certain number of them drifted in our wake as if
unable to escape the current of our passage. I found it
amusing, and I sensed the old Elf did as well. Shijef snarled,
growled, and barked at those who followed us too closely,
which put him in as happy a state as I had seen since he
killed the Haladina in the forest-

We went from one tree to another toward the center of
Cygestolia. In no time we passed over the lake to the trees
grown together on the islands. Once through the initial
outer foliage screen I could see a massive bowl-shaped de-
pression in the heart of one tree. Branches led up and out
from around it, and we traveled along one toward it. Other
branches had been woven together above and around the
circle to provide for a spectator's gallery, which appeared
to be slowly filling.

Below us Elves crowded the bow! and argued loudly.
Had I seen stalls and wares, I would have thought myself
looking at a marketplace. Without evidence of mercantil-
ism, I was left only one other guess. "The legislatorium'?"

180    Michael A. Stackpole

Lomthelgar nodded. "It is good that you are such a
quick thinker."

"Why?"

"My grandson has announced to the Consilliarii that he
has chosen you to be his vindicator. He would have you
stand with him during the nuptial ceremonies."

I frowned. "And that has inspired such a heated de-
bate?"

"No. You see, Neal Roclawzi, the vindicator must
dance with the vindicatrix—in this case Larissa. The dance
would require you to touch her." The elder Elf looked
down at the assembly. "The debate is over whether or not
they should wait for the crime to occur, or should Just kill
you now."

Chapter 13

A Sylvanesti amid
the Councils qfAurdon

_x

Early Spring
| A.R. 499
I The Present

Awakening alone for the second time in two days disap-
pointed Gena. After Berengar had left them, she and Rik
had made love. She had felt a desperate need to be with
.him and to share his strength. As always he had been kind
. and attentive and had focused far more on her needs than
on meeting his own. Rik had purposely told her to lie back
and ignore him, while making the latter half of that direc-
tive impossible.

Ecstasy had boiled up and over in her, leaving her
^flushed and exhausted. She remembered sleepily having
' told Rik that she would reciprocate in the morning. He had
laughed and hugged her, and she realized now that he had
known how truly tired she was. A glance over at the win-
dow showed her the sun already positioned for midmorn-
ing.

Groaning, she closed her eyes again, then pulled Rik's
pillow to her. She crushed it to her chest, jamming her nose
i. down into it to drink m his scent. Her groan shifted to a

182    Michael A. Stackpole

sigh and ended with a little laugh. "Good hunting, my
hero, and hurry back," she whispered, "for I am in your
debt and wish to discharge it promptly."

A timid knock at the door made Gena pull the sheet up
around herself. "Come."

The seamstress's apprentice Phaelis pushed the door
open with a hip as she hefted two steaming buckets of
water into the room. "Begging your pardon, m'lady, but
the count was hoping you would be joining him for a
noontide audience with the Fisher Elders?"

Gena recalled Berengar saying he thought the entire
Fisher family council would want to hear her story. "It
would be my pleasure."

"I will inform the count of that, then. And would you
be wanting some breakfast, yes?"

"I would."

Phaelis disappeared back out the door, having left the
buckets in the middle of the floor, but Gena only laughed
to herself. While waking up alone was not how she would
have preferred to start the day, the residue of the previous
night's lovemaking had left her in a giddy, goofy mood that
had been utterly alien to her life within Cygestolia—and
comfortably familiar since her association with Durriken.
She knew many reactionary Elves would have thought her
conduct demeaning to all the sylvanesti, and that just made
it that much more attractive.

Gena labored under no illusions that Rik was somehow
her vitamora. Finding a True Love was considered more of
a miracle than anything else, and finding it among Men alt
but impossible. Having seen her grandparents together, she
suspected that having a vitamora could come close to pro-
viding mood elevation on an almost constant basis. While
she assumed she would find that almost intolerable, the
closeness of her grandparents was something she very
much hoped she would one day experience.

She also realized the chances of her dream coming true
were small, so she took her pleasure where she could find
it. Because of their long lives and the very real possibility of
alienation between partners, Elven marriages were more
for alliances between families than any enshrinement of
sentiment. Liaisons between people who found themselves

Once a Hero   183

infatuated with each other were not forbidden, and with
children coming by choice and not by accident, carnal plea-
sures became a gift to be shared, not property with restric-
tions placed upon it.

Gena knew her relationship with Rik would not last
forever. At the very least she would outlive him by centu-
ries, and that very fact frightened many sylvanesti away
from even considering a human as lover. They saw as a
tragedy the investment of emotions in any relationship that
might be terminated after only twenty or thirty years. Gena
knew, and Rik had reinforced the idea over and over again,
that perspective might not make twenty years or twenty
minutes seem very long, but existing in that place and that
rime could make it seem like forever. With Rik she had
enjoyed enough "forever" moments to make the inevitable
loss more than worth it.

Phaelis returned, rolling the bathing cask into the room.
She wormed it between the two buckets without causing
them to spill, then set it up in the comer. Emptying the two
buckets into it, she nodded and headed out for more water.
She came back quickly enough with more, and after a half-
dozen more trips had filled the cask to a suitable bathing
depth.

Genevera slipped into the bath and allowed the woman
to wash her back. As Phaelis did this, she nattered on
about all sorts of court gossip, including the latest news
about Lady Martina. Gena made all the properly attentive
noises, which kept Phaelis talking. Though Gena did not
really know any of the people being talked about, she
found it fascinating that news of liaisons that would have
,been treated marter-of-factly among her people were scan-
<lal-fodder among Men.

^   It is not surprising that some of us find them so venial,
so easy to dismiss.

As Gena dressed, Phaelis went off and prepared her a
" breakfast. She brought back a small loaf of fresh bread,
some cheese, and two apples that had been put up before
the winter. The first apple proved a bit mealy, so Gena
followed it with most of the bread. The second apple tasted
better, and she used a bit of the cheese as spice for it.

Wearing black breeches and an emerald-green tunic

184    Michael A. Stackpole

belted at her waist, Gena followed the servant sent for her
by Count Berengar. The man led her through the mansion's
hallways and to a large room nearly twice as long as it was
wide. The ceiling, which had frescoes decorating it, rose up
to the height of fifteen feet or so. False arches and marble
pillars marked off the side walls in six separate groups,
with paintings depicting mythological battles framed
within the sections.

Four tables had been arranged in the room. Three, each
eighteen feet in length and made of stout oak, had been
arranged to form half a hexagon facing the door. The last
table, which was smaller and made of darkly stained ma-
ple, faced the central table directly. Count Berengar sat at it
while older men occupied places behind the other three.

Berengar stood as Gena entered and pointed her to the
chair next to his. "Thank you for coming. I will need you
to verify what I report about our encounter yesterday." He
dropped his voice into an apologetic whisper. "My elders
are all sticklers for detail. Last night I spoke with key mem-
bers, but now everyone wants to hear what happened.
They all know, but all must hear."

"I understand."

Berengar gave her a smile, then turned to face the man
seated in the tallest chair. "If it pleases all my Lords, I have
grave news."

The gray-haired, long-bearded man Gena remembered
from the reception as being Berengar's granduncle Kellin
nodded. "Proceed."

"Yesterday, not much past this time, I led Lady
Genevera into a Haladin campsite. My cousin Waldo had
preceded us with a patrol, and we found evidence at the
campsite of a hasty retreat by the Haiadina. We assumed
that Waldo and the Seventh Rangers had scared the raiders
off. Unbeknownst to us, the raiders doubled back and a
dozen of them ambushed us. If not for the very powerful
magicks Lady Genevera employed, I would be dead and my
men would have died along with me. Because of her inter-
vention, our forces suffered only minor injuries while slay-
ing all of the Haiadina."

As he spoke, Count Berengar moved in front of the
table and imploringly put his case to his Elders. Gena heard

Once a Hero   185

passion in his voice and watched emotions knot his fists.
While telling the Elders that she had saved his life, his tall,
strong bearing and swift hand motions left no question that
had she not been there, the Haiadina would have paid a
dear price for taking his life.

"There is no question, my Lords, that Haladin activity
has continued to increase in Centisia. Lady Genevera and
her companion drove Haladin raiders from a caravan, and
we all know that such predation is more common than any
of us would care to admit. We also know that the Riveren's
harboring of Haiadina here in Aurdon means that both our
enemies have united. The Rrveren are employing the
Haiadina to destroy us. This is a technique Neal Roclawzi
did not anticipate—had he done so, the Haiadina would be
facing a foe more implacable than our Rangers."

Gena recalled Rik's explanation of local politics. While
she admitted to herself that Berengar was probably correct
in his assessment of the situation, she wanted to hear from
Rik concerning the conditions and dispositions of people in
the Haladin neighborhoods of Aurdon. Everything she had
heard and seen so far did seem to indicate that the Riveren
were working counter to what Neal had forced upon them
back in the days of her grandfather's travels- If everything
were as Berengar presented it, then Neal's vow was work-
ing against Neal's intentions.

One of the Elders, a man with only a little white distrib-
uted through his brown hair, frowned at Berengar. "You
have dealt with the problem at the campsite, yes?"

"Yes, but that is dousing a spark when a fire rages."

The leader of the Elders held up a hand. "Berengar,
Theobold, you both are racing toward a discussion that is,
as yet, built on nothing." That quieted the two of them, so
he turned his gaze on Gena. "Lady Genevera, did the
events unfold as Berengar related them?"

"Yes, Duke Kellin. A dozen of the raiders ambushed
us."

"Was there provocation?"

Gena frowned. "Aside from our being in their camp?
No, unless you consider the apparent fact that they recog-
nized and concentrated upon killing Count Berengar. This

186    Michael A. Stackpole

is not to say that they were sent specifically to assassinate
him, but they did focus their efforts on him."

Berengar nodded quickly. "And just as they recognized
me, they could recognize any of you, or your children, or
servants. We are at war—there is no mistaking that."

Theobold shook his head. "If we are at war, then we
must do as you have done and destroy those who attack us.
In this case, that is the Haladina."

The count laughed. "You argue that killing the arrows
is justified, but killing the archer is not?"

"You have yet to prove to me who the archer is!" The-
obold looked over at Kellin. "My Lord, Berengar once
again suggests that we are threatened with harm by the
Riveren Clan when we do not know this is true. We have
discussed all this before. Even if his argument is true, Neal
will prevent us from striking back, so all of this is futile
speculation."

"It was, until now!" Berengar turned back to look at
Gena, and she saw triumph burning in his eyes. "Lady
Genevera has indicated that it is possible to recover
Cleaveheart and Wasp. With them, severing the knot and
breaking the hollow vow is possible. I believe this is vital if
we are to survive and prove victorious over Riveren per-
fidy. It is not a question of aggression, but of defending
ourselves."

He pointed at Theobold. "As my uncle has so aptly
noted, we have no proof that the Riveren are not working
against us. I would suggest that giving me your blessing to
undertake recovery of Neal's weapons will not precipitate
problems. While I am gone, and I would expect to be gone
for the summer at the very least, we can undertake a study
of who is aiding the Haladina who prey upon us. If the
Riveren are guilty, then we will deal with them. If not,
Cleaveheart has drunk Haladin blood before, and I will not
be averse to bringing Neal's brand of war to them in our

defense."

Berengar had lowered his voice and strung the words
together mellifluously. His audience, save one, clearly ap-
preciated the way he had worked around Theobold's sug-
gestion that he was out to precipitate trouble. Gena could
see how the other merchants took to heart Berengar's point

Once a Hero   187

that his mission would benefit them no matter who proved
to be behind the Haladin raids. Even Theobold seemed to
consider the expedition seriously, though Gena thought
that might be because it would remove Berengar from
Aurdon for a time.

She smiled to herself. Perhaps Theobold is the mas-
termind Rik is looking for.

Kellin stroked his beard, then looked up at her. "Lady
Genevera, is it possible to recover these weapons?"

"I believe it is, my Lord. I do not know where the
sword actually is, but I know some of the places it is not.
Count Berengar might be generous in suggesting he would
have it by the summer, but by the end of the summer I
believe we would know where it is."

Kellin nodded slowly. "I am inclined to send you off on
your hunt, nephew, but there are details to be worked out
amongst the elders here." The man broke off as the cham-
ber door opened and a breathless servant ran in. "What is
it?"

The servant fell to his knees before the duke. "Forgive
me, sire, but there has been a murder."

"Who?"

"Lord Orvir."

Theobold shot from his chair. "Rattlebrain, Lord Orvir
has been dead for years!"

"No, my Lords, not Berengar's brother, the new Lord
Orvir." He turned and looked back at Gena, sending a jolt
through her. "You know, rhe man what came with her.
The thief. The Haladina have killed him dead."

Chapter 14

A Man amid the
Councils ofCygestolia

x

Late Summer

Reign of the Red Tiger Year 1

Five Centuries Ago

My Thirty-fifth Year

The debate dulled a bit as Lomthelgar led me down into
the heart of the bowl. I gravitated toward Aamndel, who
flashed me a quick smile before anger recaptured his fea-
tures. His father stood beside him wearing anger and pa-
rental concern in about equal amounts on his face. The
Dreel padded behind me, but rose up on his rear feet to
tower above and around me as if he were to me what a
hood is to a cobra.

For my part, I felt a glacier moving through my guts.
Save Aarundel, his family, and Shijef, I'd nary a friend in
the legfslatorium or the galleries above it. Fmndati ap-
peared to be a focal point for Aarundel, and the argument
raged between them, sibilantiy thrust and parried in the
Sylvan tongue at a rate far faster than 1 could ever have
understood. Hate-filled glances at me needed no transla-
tion, however, and Jammaq began to seem positively
friendly in comparison to Cygestolia.

Once a Hero    189

Lomthelgar's silver eyes narrowed; then he smiled in a
world-weary way. "Finndali argues that, as a Man, you
will dishonor his wife, so you must die now to save her.
Ryslard and Stisel say that because you are a beast, you
cannot be vindicator." He canted his head to the side. "My
grandson is more a warrior than a politician."

And he is quicker than I am. Even as I thought that, the
two lines of attack laid themselves out in my brain in very
simple terms. The Beast argument simply wanted to block
me from the nuptials. If successful it would embarrass
Aarundel for his choice, and probably do some damage to
Thralan's position as one of the Consilliarii. That attack,
then, was directed more at him than at me.

Finndali's case bored in on me completely. If I were to
touch Larissa, as one tradition demanded and another for-
bade, I would die and she would be exiled. Aside from the
dislike that had sprung up between us so long ago, Finndali
stood a good chance of losing his wife. As wars have been
fought and murders plotted to prevent the same, his action
here made a lot of sense. That it also fed his anti-Human
hatreds made Finndali's stand that much more palatable to
him.

The thing was, of course, that the two arguments
tripped each other up. I raised a hand. "Might the target of
this discussion speak?"

A sylvanesti in gold-cloth robes, seated in a throne
grown up from the base of the floor, shook her head. "You
have no standing here. You will be silent."

Lomthelgar stepped out of my shadow. "Calarianne, I
would speak."

"I recognize . . . Lomthelgar Consilliani emeratus."

The old Elf opened his mouth, but only a sharp, crow-
like caw emerged. Clutching at his throat, he coughed, then
whispered hoarsely, "My voice is gone. Neal Custos
Sylvanii will speak for me." He slapped me on the shoulder
with surprising strength and propelled me a step forward.

"Begging your pardons all, I'm gathering that there are
two cases being raised against me. The first is that I'm a
beast—no better than the horse I rode in on or the Dreel
standing aback of me. I figure I could ask you all to ex-
amine the record of my dealings with Aarundel or with

190    Michael A. Stackpole

other Sylvan warriors, and we could start with Finndali
Imperator and work on through the honor guard you sent
to bring Aarundel here for his wedding. What they said,
though, would be argued as opinion, having no weight,
and therefore, I'm thinking, would be dismissed out of
hand."

I tried to keep my voice low, and I purposely picked
words that came more from Mantongue than had been
brought over from the Elven. I wanted them thinking me
simple so they could underestimate me. From Aarundel I
had learned that Elves are fiercely proud but intellectually
honest, and the latter trait overrides the first when they
collide. I admired that, sought to do the same, and to make
it save me in this instance.

"There is a more simple proof, however, and you all
know of it. The fact is that Lady Larissa, being a healer as
she is, could minister to my horse, the Dreel, a bull, or a
ram and not suffer for it at all. Were she to touch me, even
by accident in the course of her duties, I would be slain and
she would be exiled. So, while there is no penalty for treat-
ing a male animal, a male Man is a different thing. In fact,
that is the core of Finndali's very argument, so you cannot
endorse his argument without disallowing the beast argu-
ment."

I saw a number of heads being nodded and whispers
being exchanged, which I took as a good sign. Aarundel's
face had brightened considerably, which helped buoy my
spirits, A glance back over my shoulder showed me both
Lomthelgar and the Dreel had crouched to their haunches
and were chattering back and forth—the idea of their plot-
ting anything together bothered me—but neither of them
appeared to be displeased with my performance so far.

I looked over at Finndali. "The problem is, of course,
that you also cannot endorse Finndali Imperator's argu-
ment without endorsing the animal argument. It assumes
that while I am more than an animal—in accord with your
laws—that I cannot think on a level higher than that of an
animal. I know that to touch any sylvanesti will cost me my
life, and despite being here, I'm not looking forward to the
day I stop breathing. Moreover, I've promised Finndali to

Once a Hero   191

torn my sword over to him in thirty years, and that's a
promise I mean to keep.

"I am not an animal, so I can understand your laws and
I can abide by them." I pointed off vaguely in the direction
of the setting sun. "There are lands out there in which I
have observed and lived within all number of laws and
traditions. Among the Najindese, for example, I did not eat
atalatha fish despite having grown up fishing for and eating
them in the Roclaws. According to the Najindese the fish
will cause your soul to wander the rivers upon death, so
they don't eat it. Though I did not share that belief, I re-
spected it."

Finndali shook his head. "Your sensitivity to the mores
and laws of other Men does you credit, Neal Roclawzi, but
it does not change the fact that our mores and traditions
require the vindicator to dance with the vindicatrix or the
nuptials are invalid. If you touch her, you will harm her,
and our law allows us to take action to prevent the willful
harming of one party by another."

"So you will kill me?" I shook my head. "I'm thinking
sending me out of Cygestolia would be an easier solution."

Larissa's husband shrugged his shoulders. "Ah, within
our traditions a wedding is a time for all strife to be put
aside, so exiting a guest is not permitted."

"But killing him is?"

"The law is the law."

"As it is in other places." I glanced furtively at
Aarundel and kept a smile on my face. "In the Roclaws, as
Aarundel Imperator can attest, we, too, can be circumspect
concerning contact between men and women. For example,
we have a dance, the kerchief dance, in which men and
women are allowed only one link; a kerchief stretched taut
between them. It is a dance that requires skill, for any
slackening of the kerchief is considered bad form. Even so,
it is a powerful dance and one that would honor your nup-
tial ceremony."

Our years of association allowed Aarundel to pick up
on the fact that I had just lied through my teeth. "I have
seen it. Neal is quite good at it, in fact."

Finndali shook his head. "Man-dances mean nothing.
At your wedding the torris will be danced. The torris in-

192    Michael A. Stackpole

eludes touching, therefore Neal will harm Larissa, there-
fore he must die."

My head came up. "The dance includes touching?
What if we were to dance it without touching?"

Finndaii's eyes widened at my suggestion. "You might
slip."

"But I tell you that I will not. I tell you that I have no
intention of slipping."

"If you touch her, you will harm her."

I smiled. "But you may slay me beforehand only (/you
know I intend to do Larissa harm. I have told you that I do
not intend to do her harm. I know my place. I understand
your laws. I would not hurt her because it would hurt my
friend and his family to have her exiled." I thumped my
right fist against my chest- "I'd sooner rip my own heart
out than harm her."

Finndali's eyes smoldered. "If you touch her, / will rip
your heart out."

"And I will bare my breast to you to do so." I pulled
myself up to my full height, "That is all immaterial, how-
ever, because you cannot kill me for intentions I do not
harbor. That is your law."

The legislatonum erupted in a legion of Sylvan voices-1
heard a lot of things, including Lomthelgar's chuckling, but
above them I heard Aarundel's voice as he shouted down
the opposition to his wedding plans. "There, you have all
heard it from Neal's own lips. He is a Man and he knows
his place. Yes, he is my friend, and I have proclaimed him
Custos Sylvami, but he is not so unwise as to arrogate
himself. He would never think himself worthy of any
sylvanesti, let alone my sister. He understands and respects
the gulf between us, he respects our culture as we should
respect his. Do not let your prejudice blind you or make
him into a monster who would despoil our sylvanesti. He is
a Man, a wise Man, and would not dare dream of dragging
one of us down to his level by visiting abominable acts
upon her."

Aarundel's words sank arrowlike into my heart and
pinned it painfully to my spine. I understood everything he
said, and I knew how he meant it, but somehow I had
never expected to hear such things from his lips. In the time

Once a Hero   193

we had traveled together—an eye blink for him, but my
entire adult life—I had grown closer to him than any other
living being, even my brother. We had shared good times
and bad. We had fought side by side, staunched each
other's wounds, and done insane things to save each other
from situations that were beyond reasonable hope.

If I had a sister, I would have thought nothing of mar-
rying Aarundel off to her. The person I knew him to be
came first, his race came later. I did not think of him as an
Elf, but as my friend, my confidant, my co-conspirator. I
would have been proud to have him in my family, and for
that reason, I was filled with pride when we set off on our
journey to Cygestolia.

Because I thought of him as my equal, I assumed the
reverse was true.

His curiously split attitude slammed me in the face.
Here he was willing to put his reputation and his honor on
the line in arguing before the Consilliarii that I should be
allowed to be his vindicator. In doing that he openly pro-
claimed me his best friend, a person in whom he had no
doubts. He trusted me and honored me with the selection,
and that honor and trust I held dear.

Yet, at the same time, among his own people he set me
apart. He held me at arm's length. He praised me and hon-
ored me above all of the Sylvan Nation by his choice, yet
he still felt it was right and suitable to point out that I was
stil! just a Man.

More's the pity, he likely did not know he had done
anything to hurt me.

Worse yet, I was thinking, I held similarly conflicting
views of other Men, including some in my command.

Calarianne stood. "The argument offered by Lomthel-
gar is correct and persuasive. We are not the Reithrese. We
do not revel in morbidity. Executing the Man for a crime
he has not committed and has no intention of committing
would be an act of veneration for the Dark Goddess. We
shall not be party to such action."

She looked over at Aarundel. "Your selection for vindi-
cator stands. You will be well represented."

Lomthelgar popped up from his crouch and spryly
stepped closer to the center of the chamber than where I

194    Michael A. Stackpole

stood. "Listen well, for this is the First Time: as another's
voice, he speaks for himself."

That announcement, which I could not understand,
started a new debate, and I found myself wanting to be
away from all the noise and the voices. I worked my way to
the right to where—as I had seen from above when enter-
ing the legislatorium—I could gain access to a stairway
spiraling down the massive oak that held the seat of Sylvan
government. I wanted very much to be alone, and, by
chance or out of fear, I met no one as I traveled to the
ground.

The stairs were long, and I managed to do a lot of
thinking on the trip to the island below. The island itself
was deserted, and sitting there between two small rootlets
of the grand tree, I managed a lot more thinking. I didn't
like all of it, but I've found that when you finally sit down
to do the thinking that must be done, chances are there's
not much of it that will make you smile.

"I have been told what my brother said. I am grieved."

I looked up at where she stood with one hand still on
the bark banister of the stairway. "Why? He said what he
saw as the truth."

"But you have been hurt by it."

I gathered my knees to my chest with my arms and
smiled without looking into her eyes. "The hurt was in the
hearing and because of what the words have made me
think about. It is difficult to discover you have been deceiv-
ing yourself."

Lanssa walked away from the trunk of the tree, then
settled herself on the ground two body lengths away from
me. She arranged her skirts delicately, and I drank in the
beauty of her until I realized how dangerous it could be. As
if sensing my thoughts, she deflected me with a question.
"How is it that you consider yourself deceptive, when I
have heard nothing from my brother or you to indicate this
is so?"

I tightened the grip of my hands on the opposite fore-
arms. "When I left the Roclaws two decades ago, I left with
nothing but the horse between my legs, the clothes on my

•aw

Once a Hero   195

body, and the blade at my belt. I wanted it that way. I
wanted nothing—not because I was spurning my homeland
or because I hated my family. I wanted nothing so that all I
did, all I became would be because of me. \ wanted to be
different, not burdened with possessions and titles and
lands. I just wanted to be Neal Roclawzi, a warrior known
across the face of Skirren for the things I had done."

"An admirable goal, and one you have accomplished."

"An admirable goal, but one I have not attained." I
shook my head. "I own little more than my horse, my ar-
mor, my weapons—and I thought I had succeeded. Here,
however, I have learned that I have acquired many things
that I didn't realize I had gathered, and I realize that I have
wanted many other things."

I tipped my head back and looked up toward the ieg-
islatormm. "Up there I learned that I had acquired an
inflated view of myself. I learned that I wanted to be con-
sidered an equal by your brother and your people, and I
realize that I was foolish or vain enough to think I was
worthy of such consideration."

"You are."

"Thank you for saying that, but yours is a minority
opinion." I bit back pain. "The damnable thing is that your
opinion is the only one that really matters to me right
now."

I wanted to reach out to her, take her and hug her, to
leech serenity and warmth from her, but I stopped myself.
"Aside from wanting to be elevated to standing within an
elder race, I find I also want you, but total success in that
regard will be fatal."

Larissa smiled slightly and blushed, then plucked at a
piece of clover growing amid the grasses. "You heap upon
yourself too many burdens, Neal Roclawzi, and you do not
take stock of your successes. You are the first Man ever to
walk in Cygestotia. You are the first Man ever to be ac-
corded the honor of being a vindicator. You are the first
Man ever to argue within the legislatorium and the first to
win a victory there."

"But ail of those things are an offshoot of my being the
first to visit."

"However, the fact of your visit did not bring with it

196    Michael A. Stackpole

any of the others. Those are mantles you have won, and no
one will ever take them away from you." She closed her
right hand into a fist. "Ten of your generations from now
there will still be Consilliarii in the legislatorium who will
remember you and your words."

She rose onto her knees and leaned forward; her long-
fingered white hands sank deep in the greensward to steady
her. "To you, to the rest of the world, the Sylvan Nation
appears to have one mind and one voice. It is defined for
you in the verses of the Eldsaga. We are a cold, superior
people who place no value on Humanity. This is how most
Men see us, and it is not without good reason that they do
so. Half a millennium ago our troops marched forth to
destroy the fledgling empire your ancestors had created.
My grandfather has told me tales of that time, horrible,
brutal tales. Through them I know why Men fear us, and
because of them I admire your courage in coming here and
your bravery in befriending my brother.

"My family is not like all others here. The chamber in
which you sleep was built nearly four centuries ago when
Lomthelgar ordered it fashioned after the halls and castles
he had seen and razed. While others crusading through the
Eldsaga saw Men as half-witted beasts whose civilization
was nothing but a crude imitation of our own, my grandfa-
ther felt the truth was otherwise- Others looked at the
things that were similar between Elves and Men, then de-
cried Men for being unable to match us—making us supe-
rior and consigning Men to inferiority. My grandfather
looked at the differences and used them to mark Man's
creativity. He fashioned your chamber in homage to what
he had seen, and as physical proof of his vow to get all of
us to see in Mankind what he did."

Passion and bitterness wove through her words as she
explained things to me. "Though we were taught that Men
were worthy of respect, that is not what made my brother
respect you enough to bring you here and make you his
vindicator. You earned that respect in his eyes. You have
proved to him that Lomthelgar was right. In your argu-
ment in the legislatorium, you proved to many others that
at least one Man is capable of thought and worthy of re-
spect."

Once a Hero   197

I nodded briefly. "But not worthy of his sister?"

Larissa clutched her hands together over her heart- "I
cannot tell you that I would consider you worthy of any
sylvanesti if I did not feel the love for you that I do in my
heart. If my brother had come home with a woman he had
won, I cannot say that I would welcome her. Inasmuch as
my feelings for you conflict with how I would treat another
Man and a sylvanesti being together, I know the attitudes
that would condemn them are wrong. Because they are
wrong, I know I must change them, but change does not
come immediately,

"As much as I want to go over to you and embrace you,
I will not and cannot." Frustration seaming her brow, she
frowned heavily. "I know the laws that keep us apart are
wrong, but to flaunt them also seems wrong and would
serve no purpose but to have you terminated and me ex-
iled. Others would point to us as an example not of an
injustice, but of justice done because we proved ourselves
unable to respect the laws of society."

Everything she said bored into my chest through the
wound Aarundel's words had opened, but they did no
more rending and tearing. They touched me deeply and
awakened the part of me that I let loose only in battle. I
began to reshape my perceptions along the lines of combat,
spying out strengths and weaknesses along the enemy line.
I ran through dozens and dozens of strategies in my mind,
all the while my competitive and predatory hunger growing
more and more ferocious.

I saw my situation paralleling that of the Red Tiger's
war to overthrow Reithrese overlords. As I fought in his
army, I did not fight for myself—I fought for others. I
fought for generations of Men who would someday re-
member us only as characters in songs half-forgotten and
best left unsung. I fought so they could live lives dictated by
them, not to them.

So it was here in Cygestolia. 1 fought here so the whole
of the Elven Nation would see in my example what Man-
kind truly was. Though 1 knew us deserving of respect, I
also knew I had to earn it. That meant I had to do battle in
their arena, by their rules, as much as it would hamper and
hurt me.

198    Michael A. Stackpole

It would be the true test of a hero, a challenge unlike
any other.

A challenge before which I would not surrender.

I smiled as I stretched my arms and legs. "It is my un-
derstanding, my Lady Larissa, that as vindicator I am to be
your partner in a dance—a dance in which we will not
touch. Despite that handicap, I want my performance to be
worthy of your people, your brother's wedding, and above
all, my partner. Will you find me someone to instruct me?"

She smiled and rose to her feet. "My grandfather has
already volunteered to be your teacher. You have a week in
which to learn the steps to the torris."

I stood and waved her toward the stairs ahead of me.
"Then let us go find him and get started. This I vow: in a
week's rime your people will see a dance they will never,
ever forget.'*

My prediction almost came true in a way I had not
intended.

The torris is not a simple bow-and-wheel-your-partner
dance with four steps that are repeated over and over. It's
symbolic of a number of things, from life and nature to
Sylvan history to bits and pieces of the lives of the dancers
and the lives of those for whom they dance. I know of at
least three different schools of swordsmanship that contain
fewer independent moves than the torris, but I have to ad-
mit that I never worked so hard to learn them as I did this
dance.

The different parts of the dance were individually very
difficult for me because many of them relied upon a flexi-
bility and fluidity of motion I could not easily reproduce.
Lomthetgar, with wisdom born of eight or ten centuries of
life, managed to draw parallels between some of the mo-
tions and things I might do in combat. Very quickly I found
the dance built up of encounters in a series of shadow-
fencing duels. Not only did this approach make the whole
thing possible for me to master, but also allowed me to
feed my defiance directly into my lessons.

Lomthelgar started me learning by using the Dreel as
my partner. Shi]ef seemed as enamored of the pairing as I

Once a Hero   199

was, which provided me the perverse delight in command-
ing him to follow Lomthelgar's orders. There were one or
two moves—the low sweeping ones—which the Dreel per-
formed with more skill than I did. This made Shi]ef happy
and, therefore, intolerable at certain points.

After only two days Lomthelgar pressed Shijef into
other duties. Given two sticks, the Dreel was to beat out a
consistent rhythm. This he did without fail, which allowed
me to get down the timing for the steps. Lomthelgar also
had me count to myself in sets of six, so I found myself
hitting my steps correctly even when Shijef sped up or
slowed down to confuse me.

By the final day Lomthelgar brought Larissa and me
together to dance, but he did not allow us to see each
other. First 1 performed blindfolded, and then she did.
Lomthelgar hemmed and hawed, picking out little prob-
lems in our performances, but I knew from his criticisms
that we had succeeded in learning apart how to dance to-
gether. And the next day we would each see the other danc-
ing, and that, in and of itself, would make the dance more
special than even I dared imagine.

My duties as vindicator were not limited to learning
how to dance. Aside from being fitted for appropriate
clothing and taking meals with various kin and allies of
Aarundel's family, I had to assist him in the forging of the
insignii nuptialis he would give Marta during the cere-
mony. Marta's brother would forge the wedding token for
Aarundel, but both Marta and Larissa would help him,
and both of them had a far better idea of what they were
going to do than I did.

The process began at a forge set back in a rocky cavern
on the eastern side of the Cygestolia valley. A smith
smelted down silver-bearing ore and poured it into a
baked-clay mold that made two silver bars, and two rings,
with a long strand of threadlike silver twisting between
Aem. We watched him fill the molds one day, then re-
turned the next when he shattered the mold and severed
the two sets of silver pieces.




Aarundel and I, because we were to work on the gift-
being given to Marta, obtained the smaller of the two sets
and only a third of the silver thread. The piece we would

200    Michael A. Stackpole

create for her would be more delicate than the piece being
given to Aarundel, which did not mean it would be any less
work. Had the task of creating the item been left to me, I
would not have known where to begin, but my friend did.
As he noted, one nice thing about being so long-lived was
that each elf-child had the chance to study different trades
for years, obtaining a level of expertise a Man could only
get over a lifetime, just to choose yet another career to
make his life's work.

The first thing he set me to doing was making a short
length of silver chain. Aarundel handed me an iron pipe
roughly a quarter of an inch in diameter. Fixed to one end
was a cross bar and running perpendicular to it was a
groove cut through the top of the pipe. Viewing the pipe
from the end made it appear to be a broken circle. The gap
between the two sides of the circle ran straight down the
cylinder and the edge appeared to be slightly worn.

As instructed, I coiled the silver thread around the pipe
and wound it tightly. Satisfied with my work when I
showed it to him, Aarundel handed me a device that
looked akin to an arrow with onty half a broadhead on it. I
inserted the broken arrow into the pipe, fitting the triangu-
lar blade into the slot. With a hammer I gently tapped it
down, and the blade cut each turn of the thread. Once
through, I turned the whole assembly upside down, and
two dozen links of silver poured into my left hand.

These I linked together, closing them with a very small
set of tongs. By the time I had all that done, which
shouldn't have taken so long except that it required more
delicacy than my normal work, Aarundei had sized, filed,
and set the ring with two small lapis ovals. He drilled a
small hole between them and linked the chain in there at
that point.

"Half-done," he announced proudly.

I had my doubts, because we had the armlet yet to fin-
ish. I assisted him in working it by holding the bar of silver
in place while he hammered it into a sheet, and by position-
ing the crimp-molds correctly while he raised an edge
around the whole armlet. He decorated the armlet with
four oval gemstones: opal north and south, lapis east and

Once a Hero   201

west- The drill produced a hole near the cuff, into which
we ran the chain's last link.

Aarundel smiled as he wiped sweat from his brow.
"Drawn from the same metal, yet shaped by different
hands and forces, they are just like Marta and me- We
come from one people, yet we have been hammered into
who we are by ail manner of forces. In the wedding we
shall be magically bound together, and our marriage will
last as long as it takes for the metal to wear away to noth-
ing on our flesh."

I tapped the bracelet at the end opposite the cuff, where
the edge came to a gentle point. "Good thing the metal is
thick, for a love like yours should take forever to die,"

"Spoken truly as a vindicator"—he smiled—"and as a
friend."

"My honor." I nodded and slapped him on the back.
"Are we done?"

"One more thing." Aarundel turned the piece over and,
using a small gouge, worked his mark into the metal.
"There, I have signed it. Now you must."

I worked carefully and inscribed the six-line symbol for
the Roclaws, then added my initial in the heart of the
mountain. "Satisfactory?"

Aarundel looked at it and laughed. "When my grandfa-
ther was young, the mark of the Roclawzi was one that
inspired terror and hatred. I am glad it now betokens a
friend."

"A friend to the death, Aarundel. No one and no thing
will stand between us."

"Agreed, unless," he smiled slyly, "you fail at the torris.
hi that case, I will have to kill you."

"Do not worry on that account." I quickly ran my right
hand through one of the complex twitch-jerks that made
the dance difficult. "If I fail, 1 will kill myself—if embar-
rassment does not kill me first."

Elven wedding traditions are different from those of
Men in a number of ways that I found annoying. The bride
and groom spend the week before the ceremony apart, ex-
cept for when they meet to see the silver poured for their

202    Michael A. Stackpole

wedding tokens. Aarundel and I attended a number of
functions with his in-laws, to the point of all but living
with them. From what Aamnde! told me, a great deal of
the conversations involved politics and other things of con-
cern to the Elves.

My job during these gatherings was to stand around
and look the part of the vindicator. This meant I ate a lot
because I could not understand what was being said. I also
needed a lot of energy for my dancing lessons, and it would
have been rude of me to refuse food. m fact, the various
hosts and hostesses seemed to be relieved to be able to deal
with me as easily as setting a bowl of something in front of

me.

Sylvan cuisine is not bad, but it's not Man-food. Be-
cause they view fire as that which makes metal malleable,
and because cookfires would use up an incredible amount
of wood. Elves prepare food in an unusual way—though
the results are quite remarkable and very edible. They com-
bine all sorts of vegetables and herbs and spices together in
huge cauldrons, pour over them juices and vinegars and let
them marinate. Things added to this piant-mash right be-
fore serving are crispy, and meat soaked in it becomes
tender and delicious without firing.

Breads and the like were also available, and quite good,
but I understand less about their preparation. All I know
about cooking bread involves mixing up a dough, scraping
as much as possible off my fingers onto a flat rock, and
trying to keep the fire around the rock going without get-
ting too much charcoal in the bread. I think the Elves steam
a lot of their bread, and I've heard talk of silver sun-ovens,
but I was not overmuch concerned with pursuing more
information about bread. Aarundel might have lived long
enough to learn how to be a silversmith and a warrior, but
I was too old to become a cook.

The night before the wedding, Aarundel and Marta
were brought together in seclusion within a new chamber
in Woodspire. As they contemplated their lives together, t
was taken by Lomthelgar to the grassy, bowllike depres-
sion where the ceremony would take place the next day.
Trees gave way above it, allowing me a clear view of the
starry sky. Without realizing I had been uncomfortable, I

Once a Hero   203

found seeing the sky set me more at ease. Being trapped
within so many trees is difficult for someone raised in the
mountains, where trees are sparse and summer is the sea-
son when mud lakes cloak themselves with a grass thatch.

The elder Elf sank down on his haunches, and Shijef
huddled behind him like a swollen shadow. "Vindicators
guard this ground against violators."

I nodded. "Tomorrow, I know, I dance. What else?"
Lomthelgar gave me a lopsided grin. "Vindicate."
I frowned as the Elf and the Dreel shared a chuckle. "I
should have known you two would become allies. You are
united by a common enemy—me."

Both of them sobered. "Master you are, enemy you
were."

Lomthelgar patted the Dreel on the shoulder. "And you
are my vindicator as well."
"What?"

The Elf stood and shook his head. "You are to be left
alone here. Good evening, Custos Sylvanii."

Lomthelgar led the Dreel from the circle, abandoning
me at its heart. I dismissed their comments as mischief and
nonsense and began to see to my duties as vindicator. I
looked the area over by first walking the perimeter of the
fiat, then working my way up along the edge of the amphi-
, theatre. It might have started as a natural formation, but
the Elves had clearly worked on it and had shaped it. From
-a military standpoint it was a disaster to defend, but in
the heart of Cygestolia the likelihood of an invasion ap-
I" proached the likelihood of my ever setting foot again in
X Cygestolia after the wedding.

|;   Once I had satisfied myself with the military details of
|j»tfae situation, I sat at the upper edge of the amphitheatre,
^with my back to the woods, and other thoughts began to
Income to me. Because Larissa was for Marta what I was for
I' Aarundel, we had been kept apart except for the pouring of
| Ae silver and the dancing. She had sent me flowers once by
^•her grandfather, and I sent her back a garland I'd woven,
fusing Shijef as my envoy, but that summed the total of our
^contact over that week.

I did not know where she would be stationed as part of
lier duties, but I dearly wished she could be here with me. It

204    Michael A. Stackpole

was not that I felt lonely without her, but that I felt so
much more complete in her presence.

I began to wonder why Lomthelgar had brought us to-
gether to dance, yet kept one or the other of us blindfolded
while we did so. I understood parts of it, of course. By
seeing her I became used to the distraction of someone
moving opposite me. Larissa's grace and elegance came as
a marked contrast to the Dreel's shaggy, brutish move-
ments, and in watching her I knew we would be very good
at the ceremony-
In dancing opposite her while blindfolded, I learned
two things. The first was that I had to concentrate on the
timing and remain locked in thrall to the rhythms. The
torris, for me, was more deadly a game than even the visit
to Jammaq. One slip, one accident, one gust of wind blow-
ing one strand of her hair against the back of my hand, and
I would be slain outright. Never before had I placed myself
in a situation where the most innocent of errors could kill
me. Any wavering from the discipline that Lomthelgar had
taught me would doom me and the sylvanesti I loved.

Blinded, I learned one other thing, and that realization
made me wonder how much Lomthelgar knew about me
and about his granddaughter. In challenging fate and death
I was not alone, and in that most dangerous contest I had
to trust absolutely and completely in my partner. Had I
been asked if I would trust Larissa, if I could trust Larissa, I
would have shouted my willingness to do so from Jammaq
to the heart of the Haladin Outlands and back again. After
the dance, though, I did not have to take her trustworthy
ness on faith; I knew, I had proof, that she would perform
her part in our lethal dance perfectly.

1 am not normally a daydreamer, walking about all
moon-eyed. It's not said to be good for one born under the
Triangle, for the moons will stare back at such, but the rest
of the night passed in contemplation of things past and
present. I found myself wandering through memories thai I
would have liked to have shared with Larissa, and in their
remembering I wondered if I hadn't already told her of
them. If the feeling of contentment I experienced thinking
about her approached what Aarundel knew when thinking

Once a Hero   205

of Marta, then I envied my friend even more than I had
imagined.

The night passed quickly and with the dawn's light
Lomthelgar came and fetched me back to Woodspire. I ate
a breakfast of pure water and plain bread, then slept a bit.
After two or three hours of peace, the Dree! awakened me
so I could wash. By the time I had cleansed myself and
dried off, Lomthelgar finished laying out the clothes I
would wear for the ceremony.

My tunic and hose had been cut from soft, shiny silk
and dyed the iridescent color of emeralds. The fabric's light
weight made me think it would be cold, but the silk
warmed against my flesh quite quickly. My leather jerkin,
gloves, and boots had all been dyed a light grey, tighter
than dusk but darker than curing-smoke. The boots came
to my knee and the tops flopped down; the gloves came to
^midforearm. The leather garments had been a bit large, but
. sized themselves instantly, as had Aarundef's glove during

- my fight with Tashayul.

Because I would be asked to dance, I removed
Cleaveheart's scabbard from the belt I normally wore and
affixed it to a longer belt that I looped diagonally over my
torso. A second, more narrow belt threaded through the
i-first at my left hip and buckled around my waist. The
'grand result of all this fussing was that Cleaveheart hung

-across my back, with the hilt jutting up above my right

-shoulder. Drawing it would be difficult, but I anticipated
' no trouble, so that did not concern me very much.

^   The other reason I was not concerned about my ability
I. to draw Cleaveheart was that in my role as vindicator I was
|to bear Aarundel's favorite weapon. The Dwarven battle-
|hlx rose to the height of my shoulder when I placed the butt
|end on the ground, and the broad curved blade all but
|,eclipsed my chest. The wickedly hooked raven's-beak on
tthe opposite side of the head actually looked more cruel
tthan the ax blade itself, but I knew the blade's razor edge
i; could chop through armor and warrior easily and erfi-
|dently. The spike at the top of the weapon might have been
^considered overkill, but it made the ax also function as a
I'lance, which was important in a cavalry company.

Suitably attired, I followed Lomthelgar back to the am-

206    Michael A. Stackpole

phitheatre and look my place at Aarundel's side. He wore
black except at his throat, where an azure scarf had been
knotted. He smiled when he saw me, then composed him-
self as gentle piping began from somewhere behind us.

The amphitheatre had changed in the short time I had
been away from it. A small wooden altar had been raised at
one edge. Looking like a tree stump, the altar had been
shaped so that the feet resembled roots, and aside from the
impossibility of it, I wondered if it had been grown in that
spot in the hours since my vigil had ended. On its flat,
polished surface rested a red velvet pillow which bore both
insignii nuptialis.

Behind us, both on the flat and on the hillsides, many
Elves had come to the celebration. All of them wore bright
costumes, and I noticed, as 1 looked around, that the only
green I saw in the whole place, aside from that which I
wore, came in the few spots where the underlying grass
peeked through the crowd. Paranoia over being the only
person wearing green began to nibble at my mind, but I
decided such thoughts were not part of my duty as vindica-
tor, so I dismissed them.

The piping picked up in pace as the bride and her en-
tourage entered the amphitheatre. They came up and over
the berm at a point }ust barely on the far side of the altar.
In the lead came an Elven priest I put at Thralan's age,
though the white of his hair almost made me second-guess
that estimate. Following him came Thralan and Ashenah,
walking hand in hand. They wore black yet did not have
blue to lighten the severity of their clothes. Still, the smiles
on their faces left no doubt that they were very happy.

In their wake came Sidainc and Marta's mother, Gra-
tiona. They did not walk hand in hand as parents, but her
hand rested inside the crook of her father's elbow. Vince-
lan, Marta's father, had chosen to go excedere, which
meant he was unable to attend his daughter's marriage. I
did not have a clear understanding as to what it meant to
go beyond, but his departure had been spoken of in a mix-
ture of reverence and sadness that made me think it was
not the same as being dead, but close.

Aarundel's parents came over and stood behind us, and
Marta's people stood opposite them. The piping stopped,

Once a Hero   207

then started again with a more sedate tune and I felt the
attention of those gathered in the amphitheatre swell.
Coming up over the crest of the hill, Lanssa appeared in
silhouette for a moment; then she started her descent. As
did I, she wore emerald-green chased with black and
looked utterly ravishing. I felt a )olt run through me as our
gazes met, and relief as we both looked away—she gazing
toward her brother while I glanced back up the hill to
where Marta stood.

Aarundel's sharp intake of breath put into sound what I
felt as I saw Marta descend the hill. Wearing an azure
gown the same color as the scarf around Aarundel's neck,
she strode forward with grace and a regal bearing. A black
scarf trailed behind her as if a pennoncel proclaiming her
link with Aarundel—though of that there was little doubt,
She radiated happiness and love so brightly, and Aarundel
reflected it so completely, that had I been standing between
them, I felt certain I would have burst into flames. Every-
' one else seemed to sense the heat and the power of their
vitamor as well, for the whole community was drawn to-
gether like a thirsty herd of antelope around a cool, clear
lake.

The priest at the altar raised his hands and laboriously
spoke in Mantongue. "As a community we come here to
•' recognize and celebrate the union of this Aarundel and this
Marta." Shirting to the Sylvan language, he spoke again,
likely repeating much of what he had already said, but
filling it in with ceremonial words that made the bride and
groom smile.

The priest looked beyond them to Aarundel's parents.
"Is this your son, free of obligations to another?" They
nodded, and he turned his attention to Marta's mother and
grandfather. He spoke to them in Elven—his foray into
Mantongue only for my benefit. When he received a similar
nod of assent, he spoke to Lanssa, and she gave him short
answers that prompted Aarundel and Marta to look at
each other and blush.

The priest focused on me. "Neal of the Roclaws, vindi-
cator, is this Aarundel known to you?"

"He is."

"Is he free of obligations and committed to this union?"

208    Michael A. Stackpole

"He is."

"And has this place remained inviolate through the
night?"

"It has."

My replies seemed to satisfy him, so he pushed on
through the ceremony- At points he lapsed into Man-
tongue, and given the selection of things he allowed me to
hear, he wanted me to understand both the sanctity of the
situation and the incredibly long tradition of which I had
been made a part. This consisted mostly of theological
recountings, many of which I had heard before in slightly
different forms, but with an emphasis on why Elves were
greatly superior to Men.

"In the time before ail time, Levicius and Alosia, the
sky and the earth, became aware of each other- In this
awareness came knowledge of their divinity, and in their
wisdom they created the Dwarves to shape the world and
the Elves to shape all that existed within the world. All that
their creations brought forth were manifestations of their
love for each other. Lest the world and their love become
stale, they also brought forth another race, those who now
claim the mantle Reithrese, to husband the elemental forces
of Chaos, to inflict change upon their world so that it could
change and grow and become more perfect.

"In lime, through the pleasure of their creation,
Levicius and Alosia chose to share their world with chil-
dren born of them, not created by them. Kyori and Jistan
came first, then Bok, Chavameht and Herin. Last came
Reithra, who, in her jealousy against her mother over the
love of her father, shaped her hatred into death. Thus be-
gan the first rebellion.

"Kyori and Jistan fought on behalf of their parents and
won a truce with their siblings that forced Levicius and
Alosia to go beyond. In the war of the gods, the Elves had
defended the gods who had created them, and in that de-
fense won the right to attend their creators in exile. The
Dwarves, who remained neutral, were not touched by
Death in the fullest first blush of its power, so now elude it
still. The Reithrese embraced it and now it defines them."

Never before had I heard names put to the parents of
the gods, and the antiquity of the Sylvan Nation made itself

Once a Hero   209

manifest in the Elves's knowledge of those who had birthed
the gods that now ruled the world. The timing of the cre-
ation of the Reithrese also explained some of the animosity
between them and the Elves. To the Elves they were created
later, making them inferior. The Reithrese must have held
that because they were created to change that over which
Elves and Dwarves had been given dominion, they were the
superior people. Their subordination in service to a lesser
goddess meant nothing from their twisted point of view, I
was certain.

Speaking in Mantongue again, and addressing only me,
the priest continued. "Kyori and Jistan married and saw
among their siblings the seeds of strife. In their wisdom
they created Men and gave them to the others to use as
soldiers so wars that could be fought on Skirren would not
be fought in the heavens. Bok created the Dreel as his play-
things, the Dwarves chose Herin as their patron, and
Chavameht took pity upon the beasts, leaving only the
Elves true to the first gods and above that which had been
born in or through the Rebellion."

Feeling firmly fixed in the Elven cosmology down with
snakes, slugs, and the occasional Dreel, I forced a smile on
my face. It was not the first time I had seen a priest use a
ceremony and his position to correct an evil in the world,
though it was the first time I had been singled out as that
evil. The smile at first felt wooden, but more life poured
into it as \ figured that if he didn't like my presence at the
ceremony, he was absolutely going to hate the toms. After
all, co-opt my friend's wedding day for your purposes, and
you deserve all the pain you can get.

Having decided I was chastened or an idiot or both, the
priest ignored me. For the rest of the ceremony he spoke
only in Elven, but with his hand motions and the cadence
of his words I could tell he was reciting prayers and formu-
las designed to bring Aarundel and Marta together. At ap-
propriate moments each of them stepped closer to the altar
and each other until they stood side by side in front of the
priest.

Aarundel lifted his wedding token and slipped the ring
over the middle finger on Malta's right hand. She did the
same thing to him, then they clasped hands and let the

210    Michael A. Stackpole

bracelets clang against each other- Larissa came forward
and grasped the armlet dangling from her brother's ring,
and in imitation of her I started forward, but Lomthelgar
held me back and took my place. I stiffened for a moment,
then realized how closely I had come to destroying
Aarundel's happiness on his wedding day.

In unison Lomthelgar and Larissa slipped the armlets in
place, and a great cheer went up from among the Elves
gathered there. Lomthelgar smiled knowingly at me as he
retreated. "You spoke as my voice, I worked as your
hands."

Aarundel gently enfolded his wife in a hug and kissed
her deeply. I watched, not out of any voyeuristic fantasy,
but because I could not bring myself to look past them at
Larissa. I wanted to, but I knew I had to refuse. If I gave in,
I knew I could lose myself in her, and that would shatter
the composure I needed for the torris. Without it I might
do to her what I almost did to Marta.

Around us the amphitheatre came alive. Some of the
people filed away while others moved down to the flat and
spread out blankets. They seated themselves on the ground
while Aarundel's family retainers moved among them pre-
senting pitchers of wine, bowls of vegetable stew, and small
loaves of soft-crusted bread. All of the guests accepted the
food with thanks, it appeared, but they did not partake of
it immediately.

Before the altar, retainers lay down a huge black silk
sheet. The bride and groom centered themselves on it; then
four smaller sheets in azure were set to cover each corner of
the black diamond. Larissa and I were pointed to the sheets
on either side of the couple, while the four parents sat be-
hind them. No one sat on the sheet in front of them, and I
assumed that was to symbolize children, or perhaps in the
case of a second or third marriage, the children from previ-
ous unions would occupy that place of honor.

The bride and groom were served last, and I wished
they would take a drink of their wine, because my nervous-
ness had me bone-mouthed. I waited patiently for them to
act; then I felt Lomthelgar's hand on my shoulder, "Before
they will begin the celebration, you must dance."

I nodded. "You'll be proud."

Once a Hero   211

The elder Elf smiled. "The dance is everything. As it
goes, so will go their life together."

I felt a shock as he said that; then I nodded and steeled
myself to do the best I could. I already knew I was pre-
pared for the dance. I had trained enough that 1 could per-
form it blindfolded. If my torris would predict the future of
their marriage, I would make it perfect.

Leaving the ax in its place, but still wearing Cteaveheart
over my shoulder, I stood and walked around the sheets
until I stopped directly in front of the bride and groom. I
bowed to them, then turned to the left and bowed toward
my partner. Squaring around again, I smiled at Aarundel,
then executed an about-face and paced away from him and
his bride until I stood two steps beyond the center of the
circle on the flat ringed with Elves- I did not look back,
because I knew Larissa would be similarly bowing to her
brother and his wife, then moving to take her place oppo-
site me. Back to back, though separated by a Man-length,
we were together to dance for my friends and her kin.

The pipers started the torris melody slowly, perfectly in
keeping with the tempo Lomthelgar had used in instructing
me. I moved to my right, curving to take up a quarter of a
circle. Had I been an Elf, Larissa and I would have been
touching shoulder blades. As our arms extended, we would
have laid them out against each other and interlaced our
fingers. Our hands would have risen toward the sky to-
gether, and our dance would have burned with the fire we
both felt inside.

Apart, that could not happen.

A sharp, shrill note spun both of us about, like wild
animals spinning to snarl at a pursuer. We froze for a sec-
ond, barely a heartbeat, both because the dance demanded
it and because, for the first time, we locked eyes in the
dance. At that moment the resolve I had built up in myself
to remain under control evaporated. I saw passion blossom
in her eyes, and her lips pull back in a snarl to mirror the
one on my face. There, turned inward, we knew the world
consisted of us and those opposed to us. Wordlessly we
agreed that if we filled the dance with the impossible love
we had for each other, Aarundel and Marta would be that
much more blessed: denying what we felt for each other,

212    Michael A. Stackpole

would deny them the perfect toms, and that we would not
do-

Our hands came down from above our heads and
around and up until our fists closed in our lines of sight.
Whirling away from each other, we opened our hands as if
to cast out to those gathered around us what had passed
between us. Some may have comprehended at that mo-
ment, others never would, and I looked for hostility I could
devour and use to fuel me.

The music picked up in pace, but the pipers began to
follow us instead of the other way around. Spinning, leap-
ing, and turning, we orbited each other in perfect unison. I
held my hand out to guide Larissa through a pirouette, and
though two feet separated us, she moved as if I had pro-
pelled her. As she whirled down into a crouch and I arced
over her in a long leap, she snapped her head back and
whipped her golden hair less than a foot from my hip and
flank. Landing on my knees and sliding on my side, I spun
around and came upright at the same moment as she did,
each of us with our hands outstretched and moving as if we
had risen together.

We both came forward until mere inches separated us. I
turned to the right and she to the left, as a pair facing
Aarundel and Marta. We ran at them, then stopped as one
and reversed ourselves. Spinning outward, our hands
passed within an inch of each other's stomach, her hand
flashing past a second after mine.

I had stopped counting and had stopped listening to the
music. I cared no longer for what the dance was or was
supposed to be. I knew it was just us, we were the dance.
Apart, yet touching each other on a level deeper and more
potent than physical, we flowed through the rest of the
torris. We laughed aloud and smiled at each other, our eyes
blazing with the giddy excitement of love and the fear-
tinged exhilaration of playing on the edge of oblivion. One
false move, one miscalculation, and the thrilling sense of
defiance would crash into defeat-
It didn't matter that I forgot steps and improvised oth-
ers. I knew where Larissa would be, and I managed not to
be there at the same time. I could see her and hear her, and
I could feel her as if we were bound together with a million

Once a Hero   213

strings. Puppets and puppeteers both, we controlled and
worked with the other, transforming the torns from a
dance in celebration of love and union to a dance of love
and union.

All too quickly and yet after much too great a time, the
music ended and froze both of us in place at the heart of
the circle. We stood so close that I could feel her breath
upon my face, and I feared a single droplet of sweat might
roll down my nose to connect us. If that happened, I knew
I would die, but I did not care, because my heart felt full to
bursting with such joy and contentment that death did not
frighten me- I had milked everything possible from life—
death would }ust crystallize the moment and allow me to
exist within it forever.

I thought it was my heart beating madly when I felt the
first tremor ripple through my body. I started to sway and
realized that if I fell, I might fall into Larissa. Fighting a
growing disequilibrium, I threw myself backward. Still
working in synch with each other, I saw she had done the
same thing, and we both laughed like children at the em-
barrassment of it all. Rolling from my back into a sitting
position, I winked at her and wanted to say something, but
what I saw between us made me silent.

The ground where we had stood had begun to blur the
way a bowstring quivers after the arrow has been released.
Individual blades of grass merged with others as the
ground began to vibrate very quickly. The tremblings in-
creased in power as their speed slowed, and I watched a
six-foot circle of earth ripple back and forth as if it were
water. As a circle of little wavelets closed on the center, a
spike of dirt shot into the air. A small grass-studded ball
pulled free of its crest and hung at head-height for a mo-
ment, then fell back to the earth. It merged with the dirt
without a splash, though stalks of grass, roots and alt,
danced across the waves and settled outside the circle.

The earth within the circle began to boil. Lumps rose
up like bubbles in broth, but when the muddy dirt over
them retreated, they revealed stones from the size of my fist
to one bigger than my skull. As they bounced out of the
circle, I scrambled back on my hands and feet, then stood
and looked over to see if Larissa was safe. She nimbly

214    Michael A. Stackpole

danced back out of the way of a stone, then smiled at me
and returned the wink.

The dirt circle shifted from a deep, dark brown to a
reddish color, then geysered upward. I raised my left hand
to shield my eyes, but the dirt remained solidly locked in a
column. It began to spin fast and faster, akin to the
dustwhirls I'd seen in the Centisian plains, but did not
move from the spot to which it appeared rooted. Then it all
swirled down and resolved itself into a varicolored ctoak
fastened with an agate clasp at the throat of a Reithrese
sorcerer.

"I bring you greetings from the Reithrese Nation." He
hovered in the air and slowly turned a circle, studying the
Elves as they came to their feet. His circuit complete, he
faced forward again. His eyes narrowed as he saw me, then
his lips spread apart to reveal a diamond smile. "You I find
in the most unusual places, Manchild."

"Nor had I expected to see you here, Takrakor." I
brought my right hand up to Cleaveheart's hilt, but did not
draw the blade as Aarundel came up beside me. He placed
himself in the way or any drawcut, so I assumed he wanted
no violence, and his having left his ax behind confirmed
that assumption. "It seems we only meet at ceremonies:

here a wedding and at a funeral in Jammaq."

"Such circumstances will change in due course,
Manchild."

"Pity, I like Reithrese funerals."

Aarundel held up a hand to silence me, "Neal, he is
here as a guest."

I blinked. "You invited Takrakor to your wedding?"

My friend shook his head. "An invitation is always ex-
tended to a representative of the Reirhrese people, for mar-
riage is change and they are the masters of change."

"Marriage is also the death of solitary life." The
Reithrese ran his tongue from crystal fang to crystal fang.
"We are the masters of death."

I smiled. "Ah, there's a truly appropriate sentiment for
a wedding."

Aarundel sighed and looked up at Takrakor- "It is sel-
dom that the Reithrese accept the invitation."

Takrakor shrugged easily- "Could we ignore the wed-

Once a Hero   215

ding of one who has proven a fierce foe? Not only do we
celebrate your nuptials, but we celebrate your coming life
here, in Cygestolia. Your retirement from the battlefield
will remove from us our concern for your safety among
Men."

"The Haladina have hardly been a threat to Aarundel."
I smiled at him. "Were I you, I'm thinking I'd be more
concerned about the safety of Reithrese among Men."

The sorcerer's red eyes tightened down into bloody sliv-
ers. "I have not forgotten your antics, Neal. Not at all. You
could but hope I would forget." He waved me away with
an idle hand, and I felt a light breeze buffet me. "I will not
let you spoil this joyous occasion among your Elders,
youngling."

He clasped his hands together for a moment, then
spread them wide apart and sprayed out a rainbow of gems
that carried from Larissa's feet to mine. "These are for you,
Aarundel, and your bride, Marta. Your skill as a jeweler is
not unknown to us, and any gift you craft for her will be
enhanced by her beauty."

Aarundel knek and held up a blue diamond as long as
my thumb and half that wide. "This would be reckoned a
fortune even in Dwarven halls, Takrakor. Your earlier
words could cause one to construe this as a bribe for me to
remain here in Cygestolia."

The sorcerer's eyes flared wide for a moment, then re-
turned to normal size as Takrakor smiled. "They are of-
fered in friendship and fellowship, Aarundel, not as a
bribe. We know you do not want to leave your bride for
the war trail. And do not take it that I think you a coward
easily swayed by wealth into staying here. I no more think
that than you should imagine that the Reithrese fear an Elf
consorting with Men."

"Then we share comprehension?"

"I believe we do."

"Good." Aarundel smiled carefully and raised his voice
so all could hear him. "My wife and I, last night, came to
an understanding. After a fortnight I will again travel from
Cygestolia and continue my work as a warrior."

As the people murmured together in shock, Finndali
came up from behind Lanssa and rested his hands on her

216    Michael A. Stackpole

shoulders- "You were not granted permission to marry so
you would leave again."

"And no condition was placed upon my return here to
marry. You and the Consilliarii may have decided marriage
would keep me here, but that was not my decision."
Aarundel hesitated for a moment and glanced at his sister
before continuing. "You have met Neal Custos Sylvanii.
You all saw the torris. In his dance and in his conduct here
you have seen why I have come to call this man friend. As
Neal has come here to stand by me in my world, I will
again travel from Cygestolia to stand by him in his. To do
less would dishonor my vindicator."

Takrakor's bass laughter cut through the buzz of Elven
voices. "Very good, Aarundel, wonderful. I told them that
you would not be gelded in Cygestolia. The Cold Goddess
will eat your soul as eagerly as any other."

1 eclipsed Aarundel's body with my own. "I'm thinking
we can test that theory whenever your troops decide to
come out and fight in front of their Man-mercenaries."

The sorcerer's cloak began to decay as his anger wore
away his control. "When I choose to fight, youngling, you
will once again long for the days of fighting the Haladina."

"That could well be true, Takrakor," I growled at him.
"Until then I'll content myself with remembering how eas-
ily your brother died."

The Retthrese sorcerer snarled in anger and started to
sink toward the ground. With a downward snapping of his
wrists and windmilling action of his arms, he again raised
the cloud of dust- Either because he had lost control, or
because of deliberate contempt, the sandstorm lashed out
and scourged me on the left side of my face. I went down
on one knee and felt the blood starting to trickle from a
gash on my forehead, but I drew Cleaveheart and had it
poised for a thrust into the heart of the whirling cloud. The
dust funnel collapsed in on itself, leaving only the dirt hole
in the center of the clearing.

The Reithrese wizard had vanished, denying me a
chance to make his clan yet more angry with me. His gift of
gems remained scattered over the ground. I wished they
had been his teeth and it had been my fist that had sown
them there, but such evil thoughts were scarcely the proper

Once a Hero   217

things for a vindicator to be thinking at his best friend's
wedding.

I pressed my left hand to my forehead to staunch the
blood flow. Looking up, I saw Larissa move forward to aid
me, but her husband held her back. Horror washed
through her eyes—not at what she had almost done, but
what custom would not allow her to do. I gave her a smile
to let her know I was not seriously hurt, then nodded as
her husband tried to turn her away from me.

Aarundel knelt beside me and took a look at my
wound. "A little cut. Nothing really."

I laughed lightly. "And this was an event I was thinking
Fd not need a scar for remembering."

"But if anyone was going to get hurt here, I would have
assumed it would be you." He took the scarf from around
his neck and wadded it into a bandage. "Here."

"Thanks." I could see he wanted to say something, but
words or his voice failed him. "Had you told me I might be
hurt, 1 might not have come."

He smiled politely, then took Marta's scarf from her to
tie his around my head. As he leaned in close to knot the
doth, he kept his voice low. "Neal, in the torris, you and
my sister . . ."

A shiver ran down my spine. "We did not touch. Not at
all."

"No, no, I know that." Aarundel stared at me. "What
passed between you, what drove you ... it was obvious.
Do you know what it means?"

I looked down and felt drained of energy. "Takrakor
could have made a lot of Elven allies by having taken my
head clean off?"

The Sylvan warrior shook his head. "It means that I am
very happy for my sister and my friend."

"Thank you."

"And," he added grimly, "if you violate Elven law in
this matter, when I kill you, I guarantee it will be without
pain."

x

Chapter 15

To Mourn
a Man's Passing

_x

Early Spring
A.R. 499
The Present

"Where, man?" Count Berengar grabbed the servant by the
front of his tunic and lifted him from the floor.

"Northwest of the Low Market, m'lord, in an alley be-
hind the Haladin leatherworker's shop."

Berengar dropped him and raced from the chamber. In
shock, filled with disbelief, Gena shivered, then scrambled
to her feet and trailed after him. She wanted to shout to
him to stop or slow down, but a growing hole inside her
trapped the words. Her mind conjured all sorts of gro-
tesque and hideous pictures to coincide with the servant's
phrasing, "killed him dead." As she ran down the hallway,
the images became stranger and stranger, layering eons of
decay and abuse on a man who had been alive and with her
only six hours previously.

It could be a mistake! Her training in wizardry over-
rode her emotions. The servant had seemed positive in his
declaration of Durriken's condition, but what did he know
of life and death, injuries and recovery? The servant might

Once a Hero   219

have assumed Rik dead when, in fact, he still lived. With
her abilities and magic, she could strengthen Rik. She could
keep death at bay. If the barest spark of life remained in
him, she would nurse it into a bonfire that would bring him
back to her.

She reached the courtyard in time to see Berengar's
back as he rode out the gate. Gena turned on the nearest
groom. "Saddle me a horse. Get two. You will take me to
the place where Rik lies."

The youth looked flustered. "M'lady, I cannot . . ."

"Do not incite my fury." She grabbed a handful or his
tunic and propelled him toward the stables. "Do it, do it
now! My patience grows short." She curled her voice down
into a sinister croak, hoping to invoke memories of Eldsaga
atrocities to speed the groom.

Though he ran off to comply with her command, her
anger did not remain under control. It exploded in her as
she saw Rik celling her he was not worried about his trip
into the Haladin section or Aurdon. How could you have
been so stupid? How could you have done this? Her anger
coiled with betrayal. You should have known! I should not
have let you go!

Again her intellect attempted to intervene. She knew
that she could not have stopped Rik even if she had wanted
to. He always had been independent despite his devotion to
her. And he had always been a risk taker, as the late fight
with the Haladin Raiders had proven clearly. She knew
that he had been smart enough to decide there was no
threat, but bold enough to have gone ahead into danger if
he felt the reward warranted the risk.

She realized in an instant that her anger came from the
surprise of losing him so soon. Somewhere in the back of
her mind she had seen staying with him as he grew old.
That prospect held horror for other sylvanesti, but she had
embraced the idea because the person Rik was would only
get better with age, no matter what happened to his physi-
cal shell.

Unless he dies young.

The groom led two horses from the stable, and Gena
„ vaulted up into the gray horse's saddle. She stared down at

220 Michael A. Stackpole

the groom as he mounted his horse, then let her impatience
erode what little control she had left. "Lead the way!"

"I don't know where you want to go, m'lady."

Gena snarled, then concentrated. "Low Market, in the
alley behind the Haladin leatherworker. Go, go, we will see
a crowd, I am certain."

The groom touched his heels to the horse's ribs, and
Gena whipped her reins across the horse's rump as it went
past. She sent her mount after the first horse, cursing the
groom's timidity and the roundabout travel the siege gates
forced upon them. Everything and everyone conspired to
slow her when she knew her magick might be all that could
save Durriken from death.

The city flew past in a blur, then they reached the street
off which the alley ran. The crush of the crowd made con-
tinuing on horseback impossible. Gena leaped from the
saddle and waded into the crowd. Half a head taller than
the largest of the people in the street, she forced herself
through to where Aurdon Rangers held a perimeter around
the alley-mouth. She did not care who she thrust aside or
stepped upon. All she knew was that she would not be kept
away from Rik and she would deal harshly with anyone
who sought to stop her from reaching him-

She burst through the Ranger line. "Rik? Rik?"

Berengar whirled around from his station at the edge of
the alley and stepped toward her. "Lady Genevera, no."

"I have to see him."

"No!" Berengar caught her wrist. "Don't go there."

She tried to pull free of his grasp, but could not. "Un-
hand me!"

"No!" Berengar pulled her to the side and trapped her
against the adobe wall of the leatherworker's shop. "He's
dead, Gena."

Despair swallowed her anger. "No, don't say that. I can
help him."

"No one can help him."

"You don't know that." She pounded a fist against Ber-
engar's chest. "He might not be dead."

Berengar secured her other wrist and pressed her back
against the wall with his body. "Gena, he is dead. I have
seen death. I know."

Once a Hero   221

I

"I have magick."

"I know, but it can't do him any good."

She bit back an agonized wail. "Please, m'lord, please. I
must see him."

"No, Gena, no." She saw him fight for control of his
own emotions. "You don't want to see him like that."

"I need to see him, please."

"Gena, Durriken wouldn't want you to see him that
way." He gathered her wrists together and held them
against his chest in his right hand. He looped his left arm
around her shoulders and hugged her close. "Allow him
the dignity in your memory that the Haladina denied him
in death."

The compassion in Berengar's voice broke through and
eroded the urgency and resolve that had held pain at bay.
She gripped Berengar's shirt and brought her head down to
her hands as the tears started. "It's my fault. I should have
been here with him."

"No, no, you cannot blame yourself. His death here is
no more your fault than your death would have been ac-
counted to him had we died yesterday." The count stroked
her hair. "You would have done anything to save him, and
he would have done the same for you, but not being there
does not make you his murderer. Had you been here, I
might be mourning the murder of two friends."

"Why did it happen?"

Gena initially resisted, then allowed Berengar to move
her away from the alley. "I don't know why, but I do know
we wilt find those who did this. My best people are dealing
with it. They will bring the . . . they will bring Durriken
to our home and he will be interred in the Fisher vault."

"I do want to see him, to say good-bye."

"I know, I shall see to it."

Gena lifted her head and kissed Berengar on the cheek.
"Thank you." She shivered and nestled beneath his arm,
availing herself of the refuge he offered until a cart came to
carry them both home.

Genevera found herself surprised to think of Durriken
as being so small in death- Except for a folded towel cover-

222    Michael A. Stockpile

ing his loins, he lay naked on the gray granite-topped table.
His body had been washed and his limbs straightened so
that she could almost have imagined him to be sleeping.
She stared at him, wishing and hoping his hairless chest
would begin to rise and fall again, but from the chalky
pallor of his flesh, she knew that would never happen.

Berengar stood with his back to the door. "The city's
mortician thinks this odd, but I told him this was an Elven
ritual."

"It is that, really." She slowly made one circuit of the
table. "Unlike Men, we return our dead to the earth unen-
cumbered by tokens and trophies of their mortal existence.
Those who loved the deceased are asked to soothe their
hurts; then we release the dead from any obligation they
had to us."

She started to reach out toward Rik, but she hesitated.
Death being so uncommon among her people, yet with so
many dying back in the time of Neal» the ritual had become
sacrosanct among Elves. She wanted to honor Rik for the
person he had been inside, ignoring utterly his mortal shell,
but she knew countless Elves who would take more offense
at her honoring him in this manner than they would at her
having slept with him.

Apostasy and heresy are no strangers to my family. She
shook her head. It is right to do this.

She extended her left arm, lowering her hand, and al-
lowed the tip of her middle finger to trace one of the purple
cuts on Rik's chest. The first extended three inches from
his breastbone up toward his throat and similar wounds
scored the flesh beneath each breast. Identical diagonal cuts
marked his chest near his shoulders and the lower edges of
his ribs. The last laceration was the worst; a long, ragged
crescent cut that had opened his belly.

The part of her inclined toward being clinical cataloged
the likely damage done by each of the smaller cuts. The
Haladina preferred the curved jambyfa dagger for close
work, and she knew each of the cuts ran down and in to
meet in Rik's heart. He would have died quickly, almost
without pain, but as she touched each hole, she could feel
the outrage Rik had known as his life ebbed away.

Clinical detachment dissolved in an ocean of memories.

Once a Hero   223

Gena forced away the few bad ones, releasing Rik from his
part in any negative thoughts. She clung to those wonderful
and wondrous visions of the time they had spent together.
It seemed such a short time, yet she had never felt they
would end. Cloaking her wounded soul in the happy times,
she let go of the last bit of resentment—that of having been
abandoned by Rik—and looked up as Berengar spoke in a
gentle voice.

Berengar slowly shook his head. "The Haladina refer to
that form of death as tmemja tal-karti. It translates as
'Eight Cuts,' but each blow has significance to them. They
reserve it for traitors."

Bile rose in her throat as she touched the start of the
curved wound on Rik's stomach. Her fingers found cold,
waxy flesh where so often she had felt only warmth before.
Rik*s stomach had been flat, but now gapped slightly open
at the wound. Deep inside it she could see the blue-white
rope of his bowels. Though Berengar had tried to shield
her, she had heard the rumors about how the Haladina had
looped Rik's intestines around his neck, draping them over
him like an obscene bloody garland.

Clenching her teeth, Gena forced herself to trace every
inch of the wound. She felt its cruelty and choked back
her anguish and fury. She knew Rik would never have
screamed in pain, but would have just glowered in anger at
his assailants. She vowed she would not dishonor him by
breaking down, even though her throat hurt with sup-
pressed emotion.

You will be avenged, my love, by my action, because of
my love.

That wound salved with her vow, Gena looked up at
Berengar. "Why would they think Rik a traitor?"

Berengar would not meet her eyes. "Who can know the
minds of the Haladina, my lady?"

"You need not spare me more pain, Berengar, for it
cannot be worse than what I already feel." Gena touched
the corners of Rik's mouth and gently brushed her fingers
across his split lips. His right cheek and eye bore livid
bruises, and a small cut had a curious right-angle twist to
it, as if it had been made by a ring. She raised her hand to
her lips, kissed her fingers, then again touched Rik's lips.

224    Michael A. Stackpole

"He betrayed no one. They could have taken him as a spy
for your family, I suppose."

"That might explain their killing him, but not in this
manner." Berengar hesitated, then frowned. "I have heard
a rumor . . ."

Her head came up. "What rumor?"

"A disturbing one. I had heard disturbing stories about
Durriken and his vocation. I accepted him on the strength
of his traveling with you, but ..."

"You wonder if Durriken was playing some game on
the Riveren side of things?" Gena shook her head ada-
mantly and let fire play through her voice. "I may not have
known Durriken long by Elven standards, but I knew him
well. I knew everything about him because he opened up
and shared himself with me." Her voice caught as she real-
ized there had been many things she had not shared with
Durriken, and she wondered if he knew she had held things
back from him. "He would not have betrayed us, my Lord.
Of this I am certain."

Berengar nodded once, curtly. "Then that is no longer a
consideration. I do not know how their minds work, but
the Haladina killed him and the Haladina will pay." His
expression slackened for a moment, losing its fierceness.
"That is, they will pay if you still feel able to undertake the
trek for which I summoned you here. Without Rik, well,
there is no onus upon you to do this thing. I can under-
stand if you wish to mourn. I do not know enough about
the Sylvan culture to know what you will do in that re-
gard."

Gena nodded. "We mourn privately, at moments in
which we feel a closeness to the deceased. Death is not as
common among us as it is here, and seldom does it come
prematurely, so there is not often that much regret." Look-
ing down at Durriken, she brushed hair from his forehead.
"I have so much to regret, and so little to remember."

Berengar extended his left hand toward her and opened
it. "Perhaps this will allow you to remember him."

From his palm she drew Lord Orvir's ring and the silver
chain to which it had been married. "My Lord, this was
your brother's ring."

"No, it was Durriken's ring. I gave it to him and prom-

Once a Hero   225

ised that I might give him the land grant that went with it if
we succeeded. He gave his life in pursuit of our enterprise,
so I deem it right that the title has passed to him, for how-
ever brief a time," The count shrugged uneasily. "The rest
of Rik's effects, including his flashdrakes, are in your room
here. I separated the ring only because I wanted you to
realize that I meant for you to have it in his memory."

Gena slipped the chain over her head, past her ears, and
let the ring rest between her breasts. "I thank you for your
kindness." She closed her right hand around the ring and
waited for it to warm at her touch. "I think there is no
question that we must go forth with your plan. Neat Elf-
ward fought against the Haladina throughout his life. No
one who forged an alliance with the Haladina should be
safe beneath his protection."

Berengar nodded in agreement and folded his arms over
his chest. "Do you know where Cleaveheart is?"

"Not beyond question, but I think I remember its hav-
ing been entrusted to my grandfather at the time of Neal's
death. He and my grandaunt conveyed it to jarudin."

Berengar smiled. "The imperial capital? Do you think it
is still there?"

"I don't know, but that is the last place I know it has
been." She glanced back at Rik, then nodded. "We bury
our dead, then go to find Neal's weapons so we can avenge
them."

x

Chapter 16

To Celebrate
an Empire's Death

Early Autumn

Reign of the Red Tiger Year 3

Five Centuries Ago

My Thiry-seventh Year

Battles during the spring following Aarundel's wedding
brought the final consolidation of Centisia under the Red
Tiger's banner. Swinging up to the northeast, we nipped off
a bit of Ispar, then retreated quickly as the Reithrese re-
sponded with a battalion of Reithrese Dragoons and a vir-
tual horde of Haladina to hunt us down. The Reithrese did
not follow us back into Centisia, though their allies did,
and we sent the Haladina running back across the border
after we'd left a quarter of their number bleeding on the
north Centisian plains.

After that victory Sture renewed his call for an expedi-
tion to Irlysh. The Red Tiger said he would entertain the
idea of that strategy and—in accord with a plan that Sture
knew nothing about—I pulled the Steel Pack out or the Red
Tiger's force in a fit of pique. We headed back toward
Aunum, then slashed on into the mountains on the
Kaudian/Esquihiri border to wait.

Once a Hero   227

Word of the strike at Irtysh got out very quickly, and
the Reithrese started shifting forces toward Ispar to harass
bur lines. Despite reports of new Reithrese activity to the
north, Sture continued in his preparations for the expedi-
tion. When he was ready to go, he met with the Red Tiger
for one last time and was given the news that he was going
' nowhere.

The Red Tiger wheeled his army around and drove
hard into Kaudia. With the Exile Legion to guard his back,
the Red Tiger pushed into the central reaches of Kaudia,
and the Reithrese scrambled to oppose him. They brought
Home Guards in from Reith and put up a spirited defense.

The Reithrese garrison and their Haladin allies held and
fought well until the Steel Pack shot west and looped down
south. We ended up well behind their lines and successfully
raided a paymaster's caravan. As with all good mercenaries
L who have not been paid, the Haladina fighting in Kaudia
i began to look at returning to their homes. The Reithrese
| pulled back to defend key fortresses in the northwestern
? parts of the nation while the Steel Pack returned with our
booty to the Red Tiger's freestate.

Both sides wintered in position; then with spring we
brought the Exile Legion up and pushed sharply north. We
skirted the line of Reithrese fortresses, but kept enough
skirmishers out that the Reithrese didn't dare abandon
them to attack us. As a result we stood poised for a hard
march through Esquihir and Batangas to Reith itself. The
Reithrese began to move troops from Ispar into Esquihir to
press us from the north. Aarundel sent a message to Cyges-
tolia demanding that passage through Elven Holdings be
denied to them, so the ConsilUarii immediately granted the
Reithrese the right to come around the mountains and
down. They swung wide a bit, venturing into the Batangas
bulge to resupply after the long march. By the middle of
summer they were prepared to send us back through the
mountains into Centisia.

While battles are actually won or lost in the field, things
done outside battle can almost guarantee the outcome be-
' fore the first arrow flies or the first man falls. Aarundel and
''•'I both agreed that the Consilliarii would do anything they
|could to punish him and me for our audacity. He had de-

228 Michael A. Stackpole

fied them in rejoining the Red Tiger's army, and I dared
love a sylvanesti without acting like an animal that they
could destroy. While they hated the fact that Larissa and I
were as heartbound as Aarundel and Marta, they also re-
spected the fact that I fully observed their laws, so they had
to find other means to destroy me.

The request to bar Reithrese passage through Elven
lands came largely because the Red Tiger's plan would be
ruined if the Reithrese moved into the Hiris mountains.
Likewise, Aarundel's demand that our army be allowed the
same sort of passage was denied, making it clear to the
Reithrese that they had us trapped against the Hiris moun-
tains. While I would not have seen that as a great threat,
since our army could melt away into the mountains and
another Human army could not stop them, the Reithrese
and their wizards saw things entirely differently.

As the Reithrese armies pressed us north and east, their
Haladin allies cut us off from a southern retreat to the
freestate. We pushed back into the Hiris mountains, and,
wary of being trapped the way Tashayul had been in the
Roclaws, the Reithrese advanced carefully. Using small
scouting parties and relying largely on wizards, they de-
cided they had us precisely where they wanted us until
spring. Employing their formidable elemental magicks,
they brought winter early to the Hiris range, filling all the
passes, leaving the Red Tiger and his rebellion trapped in a
high mountain-valley forest.

Their magicks were potent indeed. Winds howled de-
momcally and blew away any lingering summer warmth.
Snow fell heavily during the days, then the night brought
such bitter cold that the snow froze over into a crust. The
day following such a freeze would bring rime-tinged winds
that drove corn-kernel ice crystals across open meadows in
the winter equivalent of desert sandstorms. Because of the
time of the year, bringing winter to the mountains early
was not terribly difficult, so the Reithrese wizards put a
great deal of effort into bringing us the worst winter ever
seen right there in the mountains.

The reason they were so willing to brutalize us with the
weather was because they truly believed they had the entire
Human rebellion trapped in the mountains. What they

Once a Hero   229

really had was a volunteer force of just over two thousand
individuals, including two score of our sorcerers, who
agreed to make it look to the Reithrese as if a much larger
force were in that valley.

The soldiers in the force divided their time between set-
ring up ambushes for Reithrese scouts and maintaining the

•-appearances of a camp suitable for housing an army fifteen

times the size of the mountain force. They did that by

pitching tents and maintaining fires—both difficult tasks in

tfae unnatural winter.

The sorcerers worked more subtly to annoy the Reith-
^ rese. Since Reithrese magickers are powerful, they tend to
^ hold their Human counterparts in contempt. Our sorcerers
» used that arrogance against them by weaving concealment
; spells that functioned on multiple levels. The result was
F- that any Reithrese sorcerer trying to use his powers for
? reconnaissance ended up with an incredible amount of
I spurious data and reports. Thus the Reithrese could not
|-<ort the truth from fictions concerning our army.

II'   This heroic effort bought us the time we needed for the
f^Red Tiger's plan to work.

f   The snow in the passes, which was so easy for the
| Reithrese to dump on us because of the seasonal proximity

to winter, would, for the same reason, be impossible to

•melt away until spring approached. That meant that in
trapping us, the only way the Reithrese could get to
^Jarudin would be to move back through the Elven hold-
H-tegs, or down and around through Kaudia and up through
jlCentisia. In blocking the mountains, the Reithrese had cut
1. themselves off from the most direct route back to Jarudin.
I'However they ended up going back to the capital, it would
,'lttke too long for them to counter our grand plan.

The army itself had pushed on hard through the Hiris
>untatns and had reached the Ispari side before the
ows began to fall at all heavily. Aarundel and I remained

•'» the mountains to organize the camp while the Red Tiger
ll'.fegrouped and rested the army in a valley two hundred
|r Miles south of Jarudin. There they brought in an early har-
fc'Wst, built siege machines, then slowly moved north toward
ill-the capital.

Once we were satisfied about the situation in the moun-

230 Michael A. Stackpole

tains, Aarundel and I used the Sylvan drcii translatto to
rejoin our forces. The trip that time proved even more tir-
ing for me than before, but we had two days to recover
before the army caught up with us. More remarkable was
the Dreel's ability to accompany us on the trip despite his
refusal to wear the silver chains that Aarundel and I needed
to travel.

"Magick I am," he hissed, tapping his chest, "things I
need not."

As much as I wouldn't have minded leaving him behind
in the mountains, I was glad he came through. In fact, he
seemed less tired than either one of us. While he did not
steal a sheep during the }ourney, he did hunt down a stag
when we arrived, and having to sup on venison did my
recovery no harm.

Within a fortnight, at the culmination of two long,
bloody years of fighting, the Human host reached jarudin.
An inelegant sprawl of local redstone, imported marble,
and, for one tower, Rekhrese basalt, the imperial city had
been designed by Tashayul as a monument to the vitality he
had once known. With his death the grand drive to finish
the city had faltered, so Reithrese architecture gave way to
Human as the walls surrounding the city were completed.

Tashayul's death hurt more than the desire to complete
his capital. Without Tashayul's leadership, the Reithrese
Nation broke into antagonistic political factions. While
there was still a strong, imperially-minded contingent—led
by Takrakor—the opposition groups appeared to wield
enough power to prevent further expansion. The Red Tiger
felt, and I agreed, that if we could take Jarudin away from
the Reithrese, the imperialists would be terribly embar-
rassed and might be consumed by their isolationist foes in
Reith.

Toward that end the Red Tiger's army stood arrayed
around the imperial city. Sixteen thousand Centisian war-
riors made up the core of the army, with three thousand in
light cavalry, two thousand archers, and the rest distrib-
uted among pikemen, swordsmen, axmen, and irregulars.
Despite their name, the latter troops were the best, being
huntsmen and errant warriors classed as bandits or heretics
by the Reithrese Empire. Sture's Exile Legion added a thou-

Once a Hero   231

';; sand light cavalry and some well-drilled infantry. The rest
of our infantry were farmers, who, despite two summers
campaigning, had been more at home harvesting crops for
the march north than waiting to lay waste to Jarudin.

The light cavalry formed the wings of our host, with the
-^, infantry and archers in the center. In front of them was the
£.,' Steel Pack and the newly formed Steel Hunt. With my
^'' blessings and support, Drogo had split from the Pack and
'formed up his own heavy-cavalry company. Being from
Centisia himself, he picked more of his countrymen to fill
the ranks, and they all pledged their personal fealty to the
Red Tiger. While they were not quite as fierce as the Pack, I
took pride and pleasure at having the Hunt behind us.

The fact that we had arrayed ourselves in a classic bat-
tle formation must have astounded the Reithrese in the
city. They had massive walls between us and them, and
enough supplies in the city that they knew they could wait
us out. Even if our catapults and ballistae, onagers, and
trebuchets were able to cast stones or shoot missiles over
jthe high walls, the damage done would be minimal, and
magick could be employed to destroy the most offensive
machines. Their troops, who seemed to enjoy standing on
the walls and shouting taunts at us, were clearly not of a
mind to sally forth and give us some sport.

Ours was, to their eyes, a halfhearted attempt at sieging
-an impregnable city. They could easily wait us out and
send for troops to lift the siege if we became a nuisance.
They grew contemptuous enough of us to let Human trad-
,'Jess come out to sell us various wares and intelligence about
.the city itself. The only chance we had of taking the city
f-would involve a miracle, and both sides knew it.

The Red Tiger sent a runner to bring Aarundel and me
his tent. The miracle was at hand.

A giant of a man, bigger than either Aarundel or my-
, Beltran greeted us warmly and poured each of us a
>let of wine. "Tonight we dine at the emperor's table."
"I can hardly wait," I lied as I acknowledged Sture's
f nod in my direction. I gathered, from the redness on
tips of his ears, he had been again at Beltran about
;ie special mission for his Lightning Elite cavalry or us-

232    Michael A. Stackpole

ing his coal-mining sappers to bring Jarudin's walls down.
"How nice to see you again, my Lord."

"The pleasure is all mine, Neal." Sture, while not a
small man, was shorter than any of the rest of us in the
room and used a woolen cap to hide the fact that his black
hair had thinned dramatically in the last three years. His
brown eyes glittered with intelligence, but there were times
I wondered if he was actually able to see beyond the tip of
his long, slender nose. "I wish your Steel Pack the best of
luck in the coming assault."

If I could have bottled the tone of his voice, I could
have used a drop of it in Jarudin's wells to poison the entire
population. Ignoring him, I smiled at the Red Tiger. "Plans
have been finalized, then?"

"I believe everyone understands his part in this." Bel-
tran gulped his wine and swiped the excess from his bushy
red beard with the back of his left hand. "Will you be
ready to ride in an hour?"

I nodded. "The Pack will. What is our target?"

The Red Tiger moved to the table sitting in the middle
of his tent and used his goblet to pin down one corner of
the map he unrolled. Sture held down the other side and
studied the map as if he could change the writing on it by
force of will alone. "The Steel Pack wilt go in at the
Dragon's Tower. You will have the Veirtu riders coming
after you." He shifted a finger along to point at a separate
tower. "The Steel Hunt and I will hit the Griffin's Tower at
the same time."

The plan made sense. The octagonal city, as I could see
from the map, had been laid out like a wheel with the
Imperial Tower at the hub. Each of eight main roads led
out from it to the eight main towers on the walls. Entering
the city at the Dragon and Griffin towers, we would pass
through the quarter of the city given over to Men. We
hoped that our fellow Men would not be as hostile to our
attack as their Reithrese masters, which might let us get
deep into the city before we met serious resistance.

I looked up at him. "You expect the Veirtu to draw
their sorcerers to us?"

"I agree with Neal's skepticism on this point." Sture's
head came up and he nodded condescendingly toward me.

Once a Hero   233

"My Lightning Elite is a mounted force that has sorcerers
more fully integrated into it. We would be a lightning rod

—no pun intended—for any sorcerously inclined defend-
ers."

Aarundel grabbed the back of my belt, preventing me
from stepping forward to throttle Sture. "I believe. Duke
Sture, you mistake Neal's question. He was not doubting
the Pack's ability to work with the Veirtu, merely wonder-
ing what the Red Tiger's intent was in attaching them to
our unit."

The Red Tiger, having ignored Sture's comment and
Aarundel's reply to it, nodded grimly. "I know that will
make it difficult for you, Neai, but the Veirtu should be
able to offer some protection. If the sorcerers cannot raise
the walls again, the rest of our host can get through and the
battle is won. Both of our forces have to push on through
and head straight for the Imperial Tower- The more effec-
tive we are in drawing the Reithrese to the heart of Jarudm,
die more likely our success."

Aarundel studied the map, then nodded. "Speed, then,
is our armor and spear point."

"And the Lightning Elite is the swiftest cavalry we have,
my Lord."

Beltran sighed. "I agree, my Lord, which is why I have
designated it to consolidate our gains once the Pack and
Hunt are through the gaps. If your men fail, we will be
trapped with no hope of victory."

"I understand, my Lord." Sture studied the map a little
longer, then looked up wearily as if certain of a coming
disaster.

•    "Speed is vital, Imperator, as it has been throughout
: our war." The Red Tiger lifted up his cup, and the map
'•"rolled up into a tube, slapping against Sture's fingers.

"When next we meet, my friends, the Reithrese capital will

be ours."

"Provided the towers come down," Sture muttered.
Beltran confidently plucked a small piece of marble

from the table, tossed it in the air, then caught it in a fist.
' "They will fall, Sture, they will fall, and when they do, the
t empire goes with them."

234 Michael A. Stackpole

The tactical application of magick in combat is very
difficult for reasons that are relatively simple to under-
stand. As with sword fighting, for every strike there is a
parry. In magick each spell has a counterspell. The effi-
ciency of a sorcerer, or the skill of the swordsman, deter-
mines success, but with magick it takes a lot of energy to
accomplish a result, so having it countered could be quite
debilitating. A wizard capable of throwing a spell only
once is akin to an archer with only one arrow. If he misses,
he becomes useless.

The best use of magick in our assault would have been
to cause huge upheavals of land at the base of the walls to
bring them down. Aside from the fact that none of the
wizards on our side, including the whole lot of the Veirtu,
had sufficient power to do such a thing, that plan had
problems because the Reithrese had already laid counter-
wards against that kind of spell. In effect the walls were
immune to magickal attack, which accounted in part for
the incredible confidence of the defenders.

The Red Tiger had worked out a way around their
wards. Magick considers part of a stone the rough equiva-
lent to the whole stone itself. Mages call this the Law of
Holomorphism. It says that a pan is considered a model
for the whole, and the larger the part, the stronger the link.

The little stone the Red Tiger had shown me in his
tent had been brought out from the city by one of the
traders and had come from either the Griffin or Dragon
Tower. Had the Reithrese wards not rendered them proof
against it, magick could have been used to crush the small
stones, thereby crushing the larger ones. Because we had to
use other methods, Beltran had dozens of such small stones
married to far bigger stones with a little mortar. Those
larger rocks were loaded into our trebuchets and made
ready to shoot at the walls.

The spell created by the Red Tiger's wizards was cast
upon the smaller piece of stone attached to each missile. To
avoid a counterspell working against it as it approached
the magically warded walls, the spell itself would function
only until the stone had reached the apex of its arc. Until

Once a Hero   235

that point the magick would alter the flight of the missile to
keep it flying on a course that would reunite it with the
piece of the wall from which it had been taken. As it began
to fall from the sky, natural forces would guide it into its
target, so no magick could cancel the spell and spoil the
rock's aim.

Though not as powerful as an earthquake, I was willing
to gamble on ifs effectiveness. The spell had been tested
while the siege machines were being built and, so I was
told, had worked very well. Fursey Nine-finger and Gathe-
ius had watched the tests on behalf of the Pack and agreed
to the plans the Red Tiger had laid out at the start of the
campaign, so I saw no reason to hold reservations about
the magick-

Then again, I did make double and triply certain that
Sture had not managed to secret a rock in my armor as I
prepared myself for battle. Assaulting a fortified city is one
thing, but tempting fate with magick is another altogether.

Aarundel came for me just as I finished dripping wax
onto a folded parchment and pressed the butt cap of my
dagger down to seal the missive. Flipping Wasp around, I
returned it to its sheath in my right boot. "I want to entrust
this to you. Send it to your sister if things go badly for me
out there."

Aarundel held his hand out for it. "As I have in each
battle before, I will hold the message for you and return it
when the hostilities are terminated."

I shook my head. "I appreciate your confidence, but
this is far nastier a battle than we have faced before. In the
open field the Steel Pack is a force to be reckoned with.
Breaching a wall is something else entirely."

"The nature of the task matters not, Neal." Aarundel
slipped the message into a pouch on his swordbelt. "You
wield Divisator. You are destined to win an empire. Until
then I harbor no trepidation concerning your safety."

"The sword didn't do much to protect Tashayul."

"He deluded himself with an ambitious reading of a
flawed translation."

"I hope your translation is better."

"I have the prophecy in the original."

I stood in a rustle of mail. Had we been riding 'ito

236    Michael A. Stackpole

combat against another line of heavy cavalry, I would have
donned a full suit of plate armor. In a charge the sheer
weight of heavy cavalryman in collision can shock, stun, or
even kill an enemy, which is why few troops choose to
become the target of the Stee! Pack. In addition to the
weight, the full plate helps turn Haladin arrows, which, at
close range, have an annoying habit of sticking into ring
mail.

If things went as planned, we would be fighting in the
city, so I chose to armor myself with my Roclawzi ring mail
and supplemented it with a limited amount of plate. The
combination would not sacrifice mobility or speed if I had
to travel on foot, and yet it would keep me safe- My hau-
berk covered me from midforearm to midthigh and in-
cluded a hood that protected the back of my neck and my
ears. To chat I added bracers, gauntlets, greaves, cuisses,
and knee-cops. I decided against armoring my feet because
I wanted a good feel for the stirrups in case I had to kick
free of the saddle, but I did add a toe spike to my boots in
case fighting became far closer than I hoped.

Cleaveheart rode on my left hip, and I chose to carry a
small target shield on my left arm. I planted a steel cap on
my head because I had less confidence in the prophecy than
Aarundel and because only an idiot would go into battle
without a helmet. Even a glancing blow to the skull can put
a man down, and being knocked senseless in this fight
would mean death.

I followed Aarundel from the tent to where our horses
waited. Once again the nature of the fight we would face
had forced a choice when it came to armoring Blackstar. I
decided to encase him as completely as practical in metal.
The steel chamfron had two ram's homs curling out from
just in front of the ear holes and ring-joined plate made up
the crinet and cuello armoring his neck and throat respec-
tively. The peytral had a spike in the center, and the wings
came back to cover Blackstar's shoulders as far as the sad-
dle. Flanchards hung from the edges of my saddle to pro-
tect his ribs, and they joined with the crupper covering his
flanks, thighs, and rump. The armor added nearly a hun-
dred and fifty pounds to our weight but guaranteed his
safety in case the prophecy did not.

Once a Hero   237

I pulled myself up into the saddle without assistance.
Despite the fact that my armor weighed at least half what
Blackstar's did, it was not deadweight and, therefore, did
not tax my strength to move. The day men start wearing
armor so heavy they cannot get into a saddle without aid is
the day I go into battle naked except for a big stick with
which to knock them from their mounts and a small dagger
to finish them off. In the battle between strong and swift,
swift wins every time—provided there is room to run.

Thrusting aside my misgivings about a city not provid-
ing much room to run, I accepted a lance from one of the
grooms and reined Blackstar around. In riding over to
where the Steel Pack awaited me, I rode past the Veirtu.
They recognized me and set to howling and hooting in a
way that I might have found mocking if I didn't know who
they were. As it was, I just howled like a wolf back at them,
and they took that gesture in great humor.

The Veirtu go into battle all but naked, though they use
weapons more powerful than sticks and tittle daggers.
They worship Chavameht and claim to be possessed by one
or more of the many animalistic spirits that are that god's
servants or avatars in the world. They gravitated to the
rebellion against the Reithrese more because I'm known as
the Dun Wolf and Beltran is called the Red Tiger than out
of any real hatred of the Reithrese. Warrior-priests all, they
wear the skins of their particular totem spirit, use bows,
and in close combat wield knobby war clubs that are
painted up with all sorts of strange and arcane symbols.
They also employ strange battle magicks that do not have
great range, but tend to leave their targets with gaping and
horrible wounds akin to those one would find if the target
had been mauled by wild animals-

Fursey Nine-finger rode up to me as I joined the Pack.
"I see we have the screaming idiots following us. It's for
real, then?"

"It is. We're the Dragon Tower. Form up in double file,
on me.'*

Fursey turned and repeated my orders. Each of the five
companies formed up in double ranks forty riders long.
With Aarundel at my side and the Dreel toping along on
the left, I started us out at a walk on a serpentine course

238    Michael A. Stackpole

that would parade us at the extreme edge of range for
Jarudin's mangonels. We would ride parallel to the walls,
as we had done at this time for the past four days, and if
we were lucky, we would again attract a crowd of defend-
ers watching and laughing at us.

Out ahead of us the Steel Hunt performed a similar
parade maneuver. From behind, as we drew opposite the
Dragon Tower—so named because of the dragon motif
used for the gargoyles festooning it—a trumpet sounded
from our lines. The sharp snap of axes chopping through
cord, and catches being slipped, presaged the mighty groan
of wooden catapult and trebuchet arms as they bent to
their duty. In a whirring whoosh akin to a quick breeze
rising, huge boulders flew skyward and arced up high
above our heads.

Our siege engines, because they were larger than those
mounted atop Jarudin's towers and battlements, had both
a greater range and a greater capacity than those used by
the defenders. The stones they hurled, some spherical and
others rectangular quarry blocks, spun lazily, end over end.
As the first passed the apex of its flight, another trumpet
blast sounded, and the whole of the Steel Pack turned to
face the walls. When that first stone hit, we began our
advance.

The initial strike against the Dragon Tower hit low and
hard. Though the missile shattered when it struck—pieces
rebounding and tumbling back out toward our lines—por-
tions of several foundation blocks crumbled right along
with it. Two more boulders pounded into that same area,
enlarging the wound. The thunderclap of their hammering
shuddered through me- Though a growing cloud of dust
obscured the base of the tower, screams and shouts from
the people in it told me severe damage had been done.

The next three stones hit higher. One bounced off the
top of the wall, reducing an onager to flinders and the men
tending it to bloody memories, then fell down to wreak
havoc in the city below. The other two did not hit so well
or dramatically, but the tower wavered under their blows.
More people screamed, and black cracks ran a geometric
zigzag through mortar up the front of the tower.

The last four stones hurled came down on target. One

•I




Once a Hero   239

hit the tower near the top, breaking off finials and merlons
as if they were teeth. The other three crashed down
through the dust at the tower base. Splinters and fragments
from them flew back out of the dust. The stones' impact
sounded hollow, and I guessed that they'd actually
punched through the tower's exterior. That had been the
plan, and if it worked, the tower should come down.

Down it came.

The cracks running up the front of the tower spread out
like plant roots. Dust shot from the windows and arrow
slits as the tower's internal structures broke away. Support
for them eroded from the ground up, creating stresses that
ripped them apart. Through the dust I could see blocks and
gargoyles beginning to fall away one by one, then that be-
came a cascade and finally an avalanche of stone. As if the
Dragon Tower had been built from glass, it collapsed in a
rumbling roar that shook the ground. With a dust cloud
billowing out tike fog, the tower's stone flesh fluidly spilled
out into the field as if it were a stony carpet being rolled
out to greet us.

A great cheer rose from behind us, but the warriors in
the Red Tiger's army knew the battle had not been won
with the fall of one tower. As we spurred our horses into a
trot, one whole unit of archers came running out behind
us. Armed with longbows, they sent shaft after shaft over
our heads and down into the gap. At that range none of us
expected the arrows to have enough force to pierce armor,
but soldiers on the other side would take cover sooner than
test that idea with their lives. For simitar reasons a number
of our smaller siege machines had been loaded with stones
ranging in size from thumbnails to fists. Our soldiers used
them to sweep the walls and gap to force defenders down.

The stones that had been used to build the walls had
varied in size, shrinking in accord with their distance from
the ground. As the tower came down, the stones ground
against each other as if they were pressed together in a
giant mill. The leavings from the stones high up filled the
spaces between the larger blocks, which did not move
much, creating a crushed-gravel roadway. White it was not
level, and oily smoke poured up from pockets where things
burned below, it provided solid enough footing that Black-

240    Michael A. Stackpole

star took to it without any hesitation and only a slight
slackening of speed.

I cut Blackstar back and around a marble midden as
Shijef dashed past. He leaped from the stone mound to the
broken edge of the wall and clung there as if he were a
titanic, rabid squirrel. Tail twitching, he dove down, and I
lost sight of him just before I crested the hill. A blood-
curdling scream of triumph rang from the walls, followed
by frenzied shouts that ended in gurgles and moans.

Up and over I went, the first of the Steel Pack's riders
into Jarudin. Blackstar slid down the far side of the wall's
ruins, then sprang forward to flat ground. He shied to the
left, moving away from where the Dreel yodeled in delight.
Shijef shucked a Reithrese warrior from his steel carapace,
carrying away more than just metal as he did so. Black-
star's movement brought me into range of another warrior
perched on a rooftop. He screamed some oath at me and
leaped, but I reined Blackstar around even closer to the
house and caught the airborne warrior on the point of my
lance. He curled up around it and clattered to the ground
like a tin pot.

I released the lance and drew Cleaveheart. Giving
Blackstar some spur, 1 drove forward down Dragon Street.
Riding clear of the dust and smoke from the collapsed
tower, I split one man's skull with an overhand blow.
Aarundel rode another man down, then stabbed him with
the spike on his ax before reining up beside me.

Dragon Street led a mile straight on to the Imperial
Tower. Every quarter mile between the wall and the city
hub, where the three ring roads cut across the street, it
widened out into a square, at the center of which stood a
fountain or monument. If we were to meet resistance, it
would be at one of those points, so the faster we moved in,
the less likely we were to be stopped. As nearly as 1 could
see, no one had formed up to oppose us, but the Reithrese
had barracks deep enough in the city that I had no doubt
we would yet run into stiff resistance.

Aarundel pointed his bloody ax to the west. "Griffin
Tower has fallen."

Fursey rode up behind us. "First Company is through."

I nodded. "Form up eight abreast." Looking up, I saw

Once a Hero   241

Shqef running across rooftops, leaping street-wide gaps as
if they were cracks between cobblestones. With so much
death he had to be all but out of his mind with glee. I knew
that if I saw him hanging from the eaves like a gargoyle in
Jammaq, I'd be getting near trouble, and that little bit of
information might be just enough to keep me alive.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw something further
down the street. Instinctively I brought my shield up and
felt something hit it hard. A cruciform broadhead pierced
the steel, but did not pass entirely through the shield. As I
lowered the shield, the Reithrese archer turned and started
to run- Aarundel yelled at him in Reithrese, and the war-
rior started hollering back when the Elfs words reached his
ears.

I tipped the shield toward me to get a good look at the
shaft buried in it. "It was lucky I raised my shield."
"Prophecies are not easily frustrated."
I rolled my eyes. "Well, that Reithrese should have
known enough not to waste the arrow, then."
"So I scolded him while he fled."
Fursey returned with his men right behind him. I let
them file around us to take up a forward position. As the
Second and Third companies came through—commanded
by Senan and Ross—they positioned themselves behind the
First Company. Four and Five slipped into the smaller
streets east and west respectively. I put Gathelus to the
west because he had worked with Drogo before, and let the
new man, Benedict, have our eastern flank.

Riding up to the front of the Pack, I saw no change in
' Ac city during the five minutes it had taken for us to get
inside. As the Veirtu started through the gap, I led the Steel
;, Pack forward. For the first quarter mile we might as well
^have been parading through Polston, because we ran into
; no trouble and even had Humans in the windows cheering
us on. I forbade the men any shouting or accepting of flow-
ers or jugs of wine and picked up our pace.

Our advance into the second ring of the city was
marked by a distinct change in architecture and inhabit-
ants. Leaving ramshackle and widely disparate human
, dwellings behind, we rode into a sector of the city that
(housed the Reithrese lower classes and their Human allies.

242    Michael A. Stackpole

The buildings had been constructed in a blocky style that
had strength but no artistry. The houses had been gaily
painted and gaudy drapes covered windows, but still
seemed lifeless.

Not so the intersection with the second ring road. A
Reithrese officer rallied a small patro! and two dozen
Haladina to take up a position between us and the intersec-
tion. That made tactical sense, given that his position
would allow any reinforcements to come from the ring
road or from Dragon Street. Not knowing if he had troops
following him, I had to admire his dedication to duty.

I also had to go through him.

Raising Cleaveheart, I waved my men forward and let
the Steel Pack do what it does best: charge. Less than four
hundred yards separated us from the defenders, so we can-
tered forward for roughly half that distance. I expected the
defenders to break just at the sight of us, but stupidity or
arrogance kept the Reithrese in their place, and Haladina
admiration for the jewel-grinning warriors overrode their
better sense.

Three hundred yards, then only two hundred fifty. As
we approached, I could feel the blood start pounding in my
temples. Blackstar impatiently tossed his head, and I found
myself chuckling in a most sinister way. Aarundel raised
his ax and screamed out an inhuman challenge. I squinted,
trying to see if I could pick out individuals I could identify
as sorcerers. I saw none and knew, as we passed the two-
hundred-yard mark, it wouldn't have made any difference
if I had.

Slashing down with Cleaveheart, I squeezed Blackstar
with my knees and sent him into a gallop. The first rank of
the Steel Pack surged forward, using Aarundel and me to
fill in the gaps. Steel-shod hooves struck sparks from cob-
blestones. The rolling thunder of hoofbeats echoed down
the Dragon Street canyon. Arrows loosed by the Haladin
horse bows glanced ineffectively from armor. Clutching the
reins in my left hand and pulling my shield in tight to my
chest, I howled tike a madman and plunged forward into
the defenders.

I had no chance to strike a blow, because the initial
impact blasted the Reithrese officer back. Blackstar had hit

Once a Hero   243

his mount in the shoulder, tipping the horse up and back
over on its rump. It twisted to the side, rolling sufficiently
to pulverize the officer's leg. Bucking and leaping, Btack-
Siar pushed forward, eager to get at the Haladin ranks. His
efforts carried us clear of the officer and on into the
Haladina.

Riding lighter mounts, wearing boiled-leather or strip-
scale armor, the outlanders were no more suited to with-
standing our charge than they were to enjoying a harsh
winter. Horses screamed, nostrils flared, and eye whites
poached brown eyes as Haladin horses scrabbled ineffec-
tively to retain their footing. Some managed to turn after
an initial shock, then another horse would hit them broad-
side. Shrieking curses, riders slashed at our horses while
trying to control their own mounts. Cleaveheart fell silver
and rose crimson as I cut a man from the saddle to win free
of the roadblock.

I knew that I had to keep riding, because to stop or turn
would have been as suicidal as the stand the defenders had
made. The Steel Pack would roll over me as easily as it had
them, and I had no intention of dying beneath the swords
and flashing hooves of my own men. We had a mission to
accomplish, and with each jarring hoof-fall I came one
stride closer to completing it.

I raced into the middle intersection and saw, to the east,
a troop of mixed Reithrese and Human pikemen running
forward to set up another roadblock. I never even consid-
ered turning my riders to face them. A charge against set
pikemen would be suicidal, and they could set up in the
time it would take us to cross the two hundred yards to
where they ran. But they were not between us and the
tower, so their threat to us was minimal.

It became even smaller when Benedict and Five Com-
pany burst from the alleys and streets to catch them on
the flank. Buildings swept that battle from my sight as I
rode on. To my left, inside a hundred yards, a Reithrese
longbowman stepped from a shadowed alley to shoot at
me. Before he could loose his arrow, a furry shadow de-
tached itself from a building across the way and in one
bound carried the archer back into the blackness from

244    Michael A. Stackpole

which he had come. I heard no scream, but riding past, I
saw blood anointing both sides of the alley.

The third ring of the city had buildings and homes that
appeared more elegant and graceful, despite the rigidity of
squared designs. Recessed doorways, open balconies, and
hints of interior courtyards marked this as a more affluent
section of the city, and I would have been willing to bet
that we were the first free-Men to ride down the streets
since its construction. It may well have had a beauty that I
could have appreciated, but with the architecture being so
inhuman, all I felt was the unsettling, unfocused threat of
being an invader in an enemy stronghold.

At the last ring intersection I saw a knot of figures set-
ting up, and their actions intensified that hostile sensation.
Cloaked in black, with variously colored sashes, hems, and
hoods, a dozen people stood where Dragon Street opened
into the last courtyard. Several of them touched hands;

then as they spread apart, a bluish line of lighting linked
their hands and glowed out through their eyes. Others took
up positions behind the sorcerous line, with two even
climbing into the geysering fountain- The water began to
form itself around them, encasing each in a shifting, spiky
rainbow armor.

Even a hundred yards away I could hear the energy
crackling and humming between them. I had no doubt
their line would be lethal, but short of its instantly evapo-
rating everyone who touched it, it could not stop us. I
guided Blackstar directly at one of the sorcerers in the vain
hope that he might be a weak link holding the chain to-
gether. I tightened my grip on Cleaveheart and for once
hoped Aarundel was right about the prophecy's prophylac-
tic properties.

Suddenly, from the eastern side of the square, a volley
of arrows raked over the Reithrese. The centermost sor-
cerer in the line fell transfixed by a half-dozen Veirtu ar-
rows. The energy linking him with the other sorcerers
blinked, then died in a stink of ozone just before our whirl-
wind charge blew into the square.

The Veirtu, who had moved beyond Benedict's men as
they fought with the pikemen, had flanked the sorcerers
and had knocked the linchpin from the defense of the




Once a Hero   245

square. More arrows shot in at the water-warded sorcerers.
The fluid armor caught and shunted aside arrows, but had
no such luck against Veirtu magicks. I saw water rent as if
by claws and one of the two sorcerers go down with most
of her abdomen sliced open.

One or two of the Reithrese did cast spells at us. I felt
the heat of a flamewall materializing behind me and heard
the screams of riders at my back, but the fire winked out as
Aarundel harvested the Reithressa*s head with one long
swipe of his ax. A bolt of lightning missed me, but struck
another of the Steel Pack, and somewhere else an explosion
cast a horse and rider high into the air on the left flank.

We rode on, a metal tide rising to the heart of the city.
The lack of resistance over the last quarter mile had me
wondering what we would face at the Imperial Tower. A
number of scenarios ran through my mind, the most dire of
which placed a sorcerous bodyguard for the emperor rais-
ing magical wards around the tower itself, but I doubted it.
I suspected that even more troops than we had dared imag-
ine had been summoned away from Jarudin to prevent the
conquest of Reith. The sorcerers we had ridden over had
not been that powerful, and I began to think that more
trust had been placed in walls and defensive spells than was
prudent for the emperor.

As we rode, the Imperial Tower loomed taller and
taller. It reminded me of jammaq in that on its faces had
been carved countless little scenes. These depicted everyday
life, laws in action, history and folktales, in an illiterate's
monument to the empire and people that put it together.
And while it did not have the profane displays and ele-
ments found in Jammaq, to me it felt no less malevolent.
The life carved into its flesh was not life as it naturally
occurred, but life as the Reithrese intended it to be. The
fact that Humans appeared at the bottom of the tower and
Reithrese occupied only the upper precincts sent a not-so-
subtle message to the conquered people of Ispar.

It was a message I wanted to expose as a lie.

We came into the central promenade surrounding the
tower and saw the Steel Hunt arriving at the same time.
Our troops began to rein up, and I saw the Red Tiger him-
self leap from his saddle to run up the stairs at the two

246 Michael A. Sfackfwie

sentries stationed there. Taller than either one of them,
with his red mane flowing back from his head, the man
who would be emperor ran at the Reithrese soldiers with a
broadsword in each hand and roaring laughter falling from
his throat.

Behind the soldiers the tower's huge iron doors slowly
began to close in an effort to keep us out.

Without a second thought I jammed heels into
flanchards hard enough for Blackstar to feel it. The horse
took the stairs as if they were level ground. One of the
guards turned toward me and I flung my shield at him. It       J
sailed through the air and bounced up off the steps at him.       J?
He parried it, but dealing with it delayed him enough that      ''f.
he could not stop me. In a clatter of hooves on basalt,       ?-
Blackstar crested the steps and plunged on through the nar-
rowing doorway.                                            ':',

I kicked free of the saddle and twisted down to the      '^
ground. I let myself go to one knee and continued my spin,       '^
with Cleaveheart whipping out from left to right two feet      ^
above the floor. A Reithrese warrior's slash passed over my       /.',
head while my cut took his left leg off at the knee. He went      : -:

down screaming and I came up quickly. I parried a thrust      ^,
back to my right, then smashed my gauntleted left fist into       ^
another soldier's face.                                       %i-

He reeled back, spitting out a fortune in broken teeth,      .||.
and bumped into the two Man-slaves working the windlass      H|i
to close the door. One of them turned around and jumped      1^;

on his back, while the other cowered in place. "Throw it       r,
wide open," I shouted at him, then spitted the Reithrese.      '^,
"You're free men now. Where's the emperor?"                 H;

The slave who had jumped the Reithrese pointed to a      H
sharply arched doorway. "He's in there, waiting."             ||

I ran toward the archway as Aarundel rode into the      |H
entryway and the Dreel edged in around the door. "The      '||;

emperor is in here."                                        t^

A shiver ran down my spine as I entered the long, nar-      <,'
row room beyond the archway. Aside from flames dancing
in the pit-fire at the far end and in the circular firepots built
high up on the walls, nothing in the room moved. Squares
of prayer carpet had been piled along the wall split by the

Once a Hero   247

doorway and were the only furnishing in the room. They
helped me identify the chamber as a Reithrese chapel.

Six black pillars shaped like giant femurs held the ceil-
ing aloft. As I looked up into the vaults, I noticed they had
been curiously shaped. With reddish highlights slithering
across the relief like snakes, it took a moment or two to put
the shape above me together. Overhead, as if I stood within
a giant sarcophagus, the ceiling had been carved as a mold
for an effigy. Though rendered in reverse, I recognized
TashayuPs form—the metal skeleton surrounding him pro-
viding a big clue for me.

Silhouetted against the firepit located beneath Tash-
ayul's eyes, the emperor leaned on a sword, waiting. Even
encased in blackened mail, he appeared taller and a bit
more slender than the average Reithrese warrior. The set of
his shoulders marked resignation, but I did not know if
that concerned having to fight, or having to die. As his
head came up, I saw gold glints from the crown he wore.

"So, it is you, Neal." He slowly shook his head. "You
have indeed earned your nickname: Sikkatura."

I smiled. "Sikkatura?"

Aarundel slipped through the door and stood at my
right. "It means 'annoyance.' "

The emperor laughed. "The Elf gives you the polite
translation." He straightened up and waved me forward.
"Come to me, Neal, let us fight. If you win, the empire is
yours. And when I kill you, I shall have Khiephnaft and
shall build the empire anew."

I shook my head and walked down the aisle between
columns toward him. "If you win the sword, I trust you
will ward your capital more appropriately?"

"There will be no need, once we have sent every last
Man to the goddess." He turned his back to me and
dropped to one knee before the firepit. Bending his head
forward reverently, he slid the tip of his blade into the
lapping flames and intoned a prayer aloud. "Bierek dmir
Tieghi, Alia falz mara minn Hajja ta'dejjem."

Rising and turning to face me, he brought his sword up
in a salute. What had been a black blade before, now only
served as the core of a sword edged with indigo flames. I

248    Michael A. Stackpole

saw lettering on the blade begin to glow. I recognized the
letters as being Reithrese in origin, but their meaning and
importance I could not begin to fathom. As the emperor
brought his sword down into a guard, the flames bright-
ened, and dull red tongues played off the tallest spikes.

I closed my left fist around the latter half of Cleave-
heart*s hilt and kept the blade between me and the
Reithrese emperor. Until I knew what the sword could do
aside from bum, I could not take the offensive. Likewise I
needed to gain a feel for the emperor's skill. Had I ap-
proached him the way the Red Tiger went after the sen-
tries, I'd have been spitted and roasted with one lunge.

The emperor obliged my taste for caution and came in
faster than I expected of him, but not so fast that I could
not counter his attack. He feinted a head-high slash, then
whipped the blade down and around my parry. Twisting
my wrists around, I managed to invert my blade and stop
his attack, but not before the edge of his blade sliced a
piece out of my right greave. I felt the heat against my shin
and heard the metal clink on the floor, but I'd jumped back
out of range before another little cut could do to bones
what that blade had done to my armor.

Cleaveheart had weathered the parry without so much
as a nick, so whatever the magick was that allowed the
sword to chop up my armor, it had no effect on my sword.
That was good because with my armor being useless, we
would be reduced to a battle of skill. The emperor had
skill, there was no doubt about it—as Aarundel had noted
in Cygestolia, having a long life allows one to learn a lot
about a subject.

The emperor came at me again, lunging low, then flick-
ing the blade up and around in a cut meant to carve a
furrow through my chest. Pivoting on my right foot, I drew
myself out of line with the attack. Two hands on my hilt,
1 chopped Cleaveheart down, momentariiy trapping his
blade against the floor. He pulled back, and I whipped my
sword up in a quick cut at his throat.

He twisted around and went down, eluding Cleave-
heart's sharp kiss by an inch. The flat of his blade slapped
across my flank, and half-melted armor rings tinkled as




Once a Hero   249

they bounced off the floor. I jumped back from that hellish
sword as the burning sting started in my side. My retreat
gave him time to roll to his feet and step away from the
smoking impression his sword had made in the floor.

"As always, Manchild, time is on my side."

"Neal, give him to me." The Red Tiger stood in the
archway, bloodied blades at the ready.

"No, the emperor is mine." I raised myself up to my full
height and struck a single-handed guard with the tip of my
blade pointing down toward the emperor's knee. I opened
my mouth as if to speak, then advanced a step, extended,
and lunged. The emperor batted my blade aside, then
snapped his blade down and around in riposte aimed at my
heart. I brought my left hand down and slapped the white-
hot blade away with my gauntlet. 1 felt the searing kiss of
hot metal against the back of my hand, so I flicked my
hand forward like a cat ridding its paw of water and threw
the gauntlet at the Emperor.

He slashed his fiery blade back through the space be-
tween us, cutting the gauntlet in half. The cuff flew in a
fluid blob to splash steel-gray against one of the pillars.
The candescent hand, leather straps burning merrily, struck
him in the middle of the chest and dripped down the front
of his ring mail. The quilted gambeson beneath it began
to smolder. The emperor retreated quickly to escape the
smoke rising in his face, but his swift movement only made
the fabric burn faster.

A quickstep to my left and he came into range again. I
brought Cleaveheart down in a heavy cut that caught him
on the left shoulder. Rings snapped apart, and he screamed
as I chopped down through muscle and bone. He tried a
halfhearted cut at my midsection, but I slid Cleaveheart
free and parried him strongly. Shirting my sword to my left
hand, I brought my right fist up and caught him in the
mouth, smearing crimson across his white face and chin.

He staggered back, then collapsed. He sat down hard
enough to jar the crown from his head, but he retained his
sword. Tears filling his eyes, he tried to roll up to his feet,
but the punch still had him too unstable to be able to man-
age it. He slipped again and tried to regain his balance by

250 Michael A. Stackpole

burying his sword in the floor. It sank into the stone as if
cutting through nothing more substantial than water, so it
did not help steady him,

Unbalanced, he released the blade. That quenched its
flames and froze it in place, but he had fallen too far from
it to use it to lever himself to his feet. He crashed back to
his buttocks, then rolled over onto his ruined left shoulder.
He screamed, arching his back, then went limp. The smok-
ing cloth sent a gray column toward the ceiling, where it
gathered into a cloud and filled the face of Tashayul.

I leaned forward and scooped the crown up with
Cleaveheart's tip. I slowly turned and was surprised to see
the Red Tiger had advanced from the doorway. He looked
at the crown and then me and back at the crown again.
Straightening up, with both swords at the ready, he looked
me in the eye, saying nothing, yet saying everything by
raising one eyebrow.

Back by the door Aarundel held his ax at the ready, and
the Dreel tensed in the shadow of a pillar. Between them
stood Sture, the captains of my Steel Pack, and the Steel
Hunt's Drogo. I saw them study the both of us and I knew
their thoughts. Though I had fought beneath the Red Ti-
ger's banner, the Dun Wolf was his equal in song and leg-
end. I wielded Cleaveheart, and as everyone knew, the man
who possessed that sword was destined to win an empire. I
had killed this emperor, and I had been responsible for
Tashayul's death- While the Red Tiger might have inspired
the uprising against the Reithrese, no man, not even Bel-
tran, had a more legitimate claim to the crown than did I.

All I had to do was slip it from my sword and place it
on my head. Beltran might fight me for it, or might pledge
his fealty to me. Through that simple action I would be-
come the most powerful Man on the face of Skirren. I
would become the hero of heroes. I would be the liberator
of Mankind, and everyone, including the Elves, would have
to respect me. They would have to deal with me as an
equal. They would have to please me, placate me, and that
could mean they might even give me Larissa.

The stink of blood and burning wool cut through the
idyllic fantasy my mind began to weave around her image.

Once a Hero   251

I looked over at the Red Tiger. "There is a prophecy that
says he who wields Cleaveheart will win an empire."

He nodded stiffly if solemnly.

"And so I have." I flipped him the crown. "I have cho-
sen to win it for you."




I Chapter 17

Memories of Childhood

Spring
A.R. 499
The Present

Durriken's death affected Gena in ways it took her a long
time on the road to sort out. She recognized almost imme-
diately the utter irrationality of her becoming angry with
Rik for having died on her. His death spoiled the dreams
she had not even realized she harbored until he was killed,
and she felt betrayed by that. Knowing that such resent-
ment was not logical did not help abate it, but did let her
feel it coming on and shunt it aside before it could prompt
behavior.

She also felt pain at Rik's loss and found herself quick
to take offense at even the slightest hint of disdain for him.
Within hours of his death the Fisher family suffered an-
other loss; Waldo was found dead, the victim of ingesting
poorly prepared mussels. His body had swollen up, and his
tongue turned purple as it filled his throat and cut off his
air. He literally strangled to death in the night on his own
tongue, and she found that death fittingly ignominious for
a man she detested.

Once a Hero   253

The tears cried for Waldo annoyed her because she felt
there should have been much more of a display for Rik. She
found herself unable to cry in public and knew that her
upbringing made public displays of grief and emotion as
alien to her as the custom or burying valuables and favorite
items with the dead. Among Elves those things were shared
out as keepsakes. She almost laughed when one Fisher
proclaimed the family vault proof against grave robbers,
because Gena believed if Men refrained from interring jew-
elry and other such things with the dead, no thief would
bother even to try to break in.

Looking up ahead of her on the road, she saw Berengar
gently shift his weight with each step his horse took. She
owed him a debt of gratitude because he had insisted that
Rik be buried before Waldo and in a place considered more
honorable within the tomb. That had brought arguments,
but Berengar would not be denied. She smiled as she re-
called him telling a reluctant relative, "Gainsay me, you
scheming snake, and instead of Neal Elfward, /'// be haunt-
ing your nightmares."

Gena gave Spirit a touch of her heels and brought her
horse around the siring of spare mounts and pack horses to
Berengar's side. "My Lord, I owe you an apology."

Berengar feigned polite surprise easily. "An apology?"

Gena nodded. "We have been on the road for a week
now, and I have been singularly poor company. I have re-
turned silence and apathy for your care and concern for
me."

He shrugged his broad shoulders eloquently. "You have
had good reason to be quiet. You have suffered a loss."

"As have you."

''   "Waldo? Yes, he was a loss, but I was not as close to
fhim as you were to Rik." Berengar hesitated for a second,
[' then frowned. "Not wishing to speak poorly of the dead,
but Waldo was pusillanimous and prickly. He traded more
on our family name than he did on his own deeds, and he
judged people not by their own worth, but the worth of
their position in the world. I think I actually liked Rik more
than Waldo, and if offered a choice to summon one of
I. them from the grave to join us here, I would choose your
'friend."

254    Michael A. Stackpole

"You are most kind in excusing my behavior."

"Actually, Gena, your silence has allowed me to think
about our mission and all that attends it, well away from
the pressures and politics of Aurdon." Berengar looked
back over his shoulder to the south, where Aurdon lay
seven days back down the road. "Away from the city, trav-
eling into the heart of this decaying empire, I am becoming
aware of how petty and trivial our struggles are."

"How so?"

"Here, were I traveling in the company of Aurdon
Rangers, our journey would be taken as an invasion from
over the border. There, in Aurdon, my name and my family
can get things accomplished in an instant. Here, in Ispar,
my crest would mean nothing if a Red Tiger were not
standing on top of it." His blue eyes flashed with amuse-
ment. "Realizing that something which you value is worth-
less outside a very small, confined place is humbling. And,
of course, this whole discussion must seem very silly to you
because of the chronological view your longevity affords
you."

Gena started to deny his claim, but the wary way in
which his eyes began to narrow stopped her. "There once
was a time when what you have said would have been
accepted by Elves as akin to a natural law. The struggles of
Men were seen as battles between herds of animals. They
were interesting and even diverting, but they were not seen
as causing much in the way of permanent change in the
world."

"Until Neal."

"Neal did influence our way of looking at things, yes."
Gena wiped some sweat from her brow with the back of
her left hand. "Some Elves, my great-great-grandfather
among them, thought Men had been dismissed too lightly.
Neal proved a boon to those wishing to advance that view.
Men, and their actions before and since the time of Neal,
have proved that view to be correct."

"Even so, the snarling battles between Men cannot be
seen as being nearly as important to Elves as they are to
those of us involved in them."

"That is a valid point, but one that cannot stand with-
out analysis. Take, for example, the situation that we are

Once a Hero   255

riding now to correct. There are those among my people
who might argue that the Fishers and the Riverens fought
five hundred years ago and they are fighting now, so that
Meal's effort to keep the peace failed utterly. To suggest,
however, that the failure means his attempt should never
faave been made is wrong and even dangerous."

Berengar nodded slowly. "So your perspective over
time suggests that anything which waxes will wane, like the
tides rising and falling."

Gena smiled. "That is an excellent example. The fact
that the tide will reach the same low point in the night that
it saw in the morning does not mean the beach will not be
wet at noon."

"I see that holding for natural forces, but Human enter-
prises?" The count looked around at the rolling green
meadows covering the hillside up which they rode. "If that
idea is valid, then it might be imagined that the Red Tiger's
empire will rise again."

Gena frowned. "I suppose that is true, but things do
not necessarily run in circles, though they may be cyclical.
For example, we know there will never be another
Reithrese Empire to conquer. If the empire is to become

powerful again, it might be as a federation of strong prov-

• _ - _ »

mces.

"Or a strong leader may rise up and reunite it under his
leadership." Berengar shook his head. "The one thing that
I have not liked about having been placed in the imperial
line is the amount of politics into which I have been thrust.
My family branch broke off from the main line four gener-
ations back: my great-grandfather was the emperor,
though my great-grandmother was scullery maid or some"
yach. My mother's uncle managed to convince Hardelwick,
die current emperor, to legitimize our line. All that did was
get my two cousins killed, it seems. I am hoping that I am
far enough removed from things that I won't be a target."

"I hope you're not a target as well. This uncle who got
your line legitimized, he is the Atholwin we are going to
visit?"

"Yes. He is my mother's uncle. We used to come up
here, my brother Nilus and I, in the summers to get away
from Aurdon during the humid season. Just over the rise

256    Michael A. Stackpole

we can see the town of Blackoak with the castle at the
other end of the valley." He hesitated for a second. "In
fact, if I remember correctly, on the down side of this hill is
a grand old oak in which my brother and I built a tree
house. We hung a rope from one of the branches and used
to swing on it while pretending we were soldiers preparing
to storm the castle."

Gena flicked a horsefly off Spirit's neck. "You speak of
that time as if you treasure it."

"I do." He turned to look at her with curiosity in his
eyes. "It is easy for me to remember my childhood, because
it was not that long ago. I remember things like running
and laughing, my first taste of a raspberry tart, and the first
time I ever fell in love. It occurs to me that while I envy you
your long life, I think I should feel the loss if I were to be so
far removed from times of simple pleasures."

"Such memories do not fade, no matter the years."
Gena took time to look around as she considered how
much she wanted to tell him. Still stung by the fact that
Berengar knew things about her that she had not shared
with Durriken, she chose to husband facts for the moment.
"Among the Elves, children are a rare and blessed event,
with the gulf between parent and child often being mea-
sured in centuries. Even so, because we have such a long
life, as adults we are not so pressed to accomplish things
that parents cannot take time to nurture and enjoy chil-
dren. A child is, in essence, property of the family into
which he is born. When my brother and his wife conceived
and bore a son, all of us raised him, from great-grandfather
on down."

She smiled at the count to soften the blow of not telling
him everything. "My great-aunt, before she went beyond,
spent a great deal of time with me, despite having duties to
her husband's family. From her I learned what I know of
magick as well as much about Neal Elfward. From her and
my grandfather I learned of him directly, whereas all you
have are stories that have been told and retold until they no
longer resemble the truth."

"I know that, yes. Still, the stories have some validity.
For example, I know of Neal's love for Elvenkind from the
stories. I even heard of a story sung in Najinda that tells of

Once a Hero   257

Neal's true love for an Elven maid. Is that true or an exam-
ple of exaggeration?"

Gena shrugged the question off, avoiding a direct an-
swer. "In those days, for Neal to touch a sylvanesti would
have resulted in his death and her disgrace."

"Not so today, I take it."

Gena blushed. "No, not so."

"I'm sorry. Please, I didn't mean to embarrass you."
Berengar hunted for the proper words. "Your affection for
Durriken was obvious yet circumspect. I didn't know . . .
not that I cared . . . well I cared, but I did not won-
der ..." He blushed in turn. "Forgive me. This is none
of my business."

"You are forgiven if you wish, but I did not count it a
fault against you." Desirous of moving away from a discus-
sion of her personal life, she smiled at Berengar. "How
long is it since you last visited your uncle?"

"I was a child when last I spent any real amount of time
with him, but most recently I was here when I traveled to
Jarudin for our family's investiture." Berengar shook his
head slightly. "The years have not been kind to Atholwin.
His health was declining then, and I do not imagine his
sons' deaths have improved things very much. It will be
interesting to see him again."

Gena looked up as they came over the hilkop. Hoping
to burn the melancholy note from Berengar's voice, she
pointed to a huge budding oak halfway down the hillside.
"There, is that the tree you remember?"

"Yes, yes it is." Berengar's face brightened. He touched
his heels to his mount's ribs and started to trot toward it.
"There, on the eastern side you can see a couple of boards
.Still in the branches. Likely not our fortress, but another.
XJncle Atholwin must have great-grandchildren who still
play in those boughs."

Gena laughed and rode after him, then reined back
when Berengar raised his left hand. "What is it?"

"Something we never had in that tree."

Closer in, swinging from a limb jutting north, Gena saw
a stretch-necked corpse. She rode forward and worked
..around to the east to keep the wind coming from her back
fso she'd not smell the body. By the look of the flesh and the

258    Michael A. Stackpole

clothes, it had been hanging there for the better part of four
days, for the weather had been dry and hot and the corpse
showed every sign of being desiccated by the wind and sun.

Drying had tightened the lips to reveal a meagre collec-
tion of yellowed and rotting teeth in the dead man's
mouth. His eyes were gone and a raven perched on the
branch above him. It had a bit of something in its beak, but
flew off to the north when she came in too close for the
bird's comfort. "There is a sign on his chest."

Berengar rode up beside her and Studied the corpse as it
slowly twisted around and back again. "The Truth is life.
In life he lied, now he is denied the Truth."

Gena shivered. "That's not the sort of acorn I would
hope my oaks would produce."

Berengar focused his eyes further down the valley.
"This is not the same place I remember from last year.
... I mean to say, we have come to Atholwin's holding,
Blackoak, but the village looks smaller, and the roof is
gone from one of the castle's towers."

"Yes, but there are still people down there, and fresh
pennants flying from the other towers."

"True enough." Berengar took a deep breath, then ex-
haled slowly. "Let us ride to the castte and see how things
stand there. If Atholwin lives, there will be an explanation
for this."

"And if he does not?"

"That, Lady Genevera, could also explain this."

They rode around the village instead of through it,
keeping to a huntsman's trail that had partially returned to
the wild. The bridge over the dry moat had a few rotted
timbers in it, but the patches proved strong enough that
their horses did not punch a hoof through. In drawing
nearer the gray stone structure, Gena did see that the small"
est of three towers had fallen into disrepair, though the
walls looked strong and were manned by soldiers in livery
that Berengar identified as belonging to his mother's uncle.

Two young grooms accepted their reins in the small
courtyard, and an elderly servant answered the sergeant-at-
call for someone to attend them. The old man,

arms

Once a Hero   259

stooped with age beneath a pate festooned with thin
threads of gray hair, smiled when he saw Berengar. "Come,
come. Count Fisher. My master is expecting you."

Berengar and Gena exchanged surprised looks, but fol-
lowed the man nonetheless into the musty, dark building
constructed around the base of the main tower. Torches
burned in every fourth sconce, providing just enough illu-
mination for Gena to pick her way around haphazard bar-
ricades and caches of weapons stored in shadowed niches.
She could see no rhyme nor reason to any of it except to
wonder if the master of the castle feared a coming need to
defend his home even into the hallways.

The servant led them into a small room with moldering
tapestries covering all the walls. Across from them, behind
a thick oaken table set with a pair of burning candles, a
wizened old man sat huddled in a huge chair. His pale flesh
had faded past the white of his hair and long beard to the
point where it appeared blue in some places and ivory in
Others depending if it covered meat or bone. Most of it
covered bone, leaving Gena with the impression that she
stood before a skeleton encased m glass.

One hand rose as if a puppet's limb being manipulated
by an arthritic puppeteer, and the long-nailed finger that
came out to point at them quivered- In a voice not much
more stable than the finger, the old man croaked, "So you
are Berengar Fisher. My spies told me you were coming."

As if on cue, a raven descended from the blackness
overhead and landed on the table. Its talons scrabbled
against the wood as it walked forward, its head bobbing. It
twisted its head to peer down into the heavy goblet on the
table; then the bird swung around to face them. It cawed
^loudly, and the old man started as if he had drifted off to
asleep after speaking.

Berengar took one step forward. "I am Berengar Fisher,
pleased again to be in the company of Earl Blackoak."

"Is that so?" The man's cloudy blue eyes barely seemed
to move, and Gena wondered if he could even see her in the
gloomy light- "Then you will indulge me, nephew."

"As you wish, uncle."

Gena heard noise in the hallway and glanced back to

260    Michael A. Stackpole

see a number of the castle's soldiers gathering at the thresh-
old

"If you are Berengar Fisher, then you are an assassin.
Tell me how you will slay me." The old man's eyes sparked
with energy "And tell me truly, for I will know if you lie,
and you will not like the consequences of trying to deceive
me."

Chapter 18

Anticipation
of Children

x

y Autumn

| Reign of the Red Tiger Year 3 I
Imperium Year 1

Five Centuries Ago

My Thirty-seventh Year

A shiver ran down my spine as I again stepped into the
Reithrese chapel at the base of the Imperial Tower in
Jarudm. Though the month since I had fought here had
wrought many changes in the city and the world, the burn
scar on the back of my left hand reminded me how close I
had come to dying While I was not so certain that the
average member of the Elder races was that much tougher
than the average Man, I knew the elite among the Elder
races had great power, and I wondered how long I would
be able to defy such people without paying for my audac-
ity.

Xerstan, the balding, bulbous architect whom the Red
Tiger—better known now as Emperor Beltran Primus—
had assigned to designing new constructions and renova-
tions, bowed his head to me as he entered the room The
yellowed light given off by the tallow candles illuminating




262    Michael A Stackpole

the room made him look jaundiced, but I preferred that to
the bloody pallor that the now-dead fires had spread across
the room when I first saw it. "Forgive my being late, Lord
Neal, but my apprentice was tardy in making the wax im-
pressions of your dagger."

He held Wasp out to me, and I returned it to the sheath
at my right hip. "I trust, then, that the emperor has agreed
to the plan we discussed?"

The small man nodded confidently. "He is still of a
mind to fill this room and seal it for all time, but your idea
has piqued his sense of irony. Preparations will take a year,
though if things go the way the first month of conquest has
gone, we may be ready by spring." He walked past me and
squatted awkwardly beside the hilt of the emperor's sword.
"I do not know if I am comfortable with this being here, or
if I would feel less so if we removed it. It was rather nasty
as I understand it."

I scratched at the twisted flesh on the back of my hand.
"I think leaving it here is appropriate." I glanced up at the
effigy of Tashayul- "Strikes me as appropriate that it
should have burned out in roughly the same spot as
Tashayul's heart. I think it requires a prayer to Reithra to
activate, and I'm thinking I've no desire to hear such a
thing uttered in earnest here."

"May the gods grant everyone your wisdom in that
matter. Fortunately I don't think there is a Reithrese left in
the city, so this will not be a problem."

He was correct. The Red Tiger had declared martial
law immediately and dealt harshly with looters and van-
dals. Because jarudin was a northern city, the Reithrese
population tended to migrate back to Reith for the winters,
and a great number of them had taken tune to travel with
the army that had moved through the Elven Holdings to
trap us in the mountains. As a result, the Reithrese popula-
tion remaining in the city was relatively small. The empress
gave Beltran her parole and led the remaining Reithrese
back toward their homeland with no more than they could
fit on wagons. Haladina rode as their guards and departed
in good order.

I had not expected things to go as well as they had.
Sulane, the imperial widow, accepted Beltran's terms

Once a Hero   263

quickly, as if she had anticipated something harsher.
Aarundel said she'd heard stories about my intent to make
her my wife, prompting her to leave as quickly as possible.
While that rumor might have been a contributing factor, I
assumed she agreed because Beltran asked only one thing
for ransom for her and her people: time. In return for five
years of peace, he let her go.

The Human population in the city moved from their
hovels into the grander homes of their Reithrese masters,
but that migration likewise worked on a system Beltran
had devised. That the transition went smoothly made me
thankful once again that I had avoided temptation and had
given him the crown. Not only was he a leader, but he was
thoughtful. He considered laws and policies, their implica-
tions and problems, before imposing a solution.

The trade of time to the Reithrese was a brilliant exam-
ple of his forethought. He knew that time meant nothing to
them. Five years would pass before they noticed, but it
would be seen among Humanity as a veritable eternity. It
would allow him to consolidate his grip on Ispar and to
promote revolts in Barkol and Esquihir, while Sture headed
off to Irtysh to liberate it. Thousands of Human children
would become world-aware with a Human empire domi-
nating the world's geography. They would take pride in it,
and when the time came, they would rise to defend it.

Likewise, his system for parceling out homes worked to
bring people together and make them mindful of the sacri-
fices endured in winning the empire. The grandest houses
were given over to his allies and commanders in repayment
of their service to him. A whole section of the Inner Ring
was set aside for the Mountain Men, and everyone was
looking forward to the spring and their liberation from
their icy prison. Aarundel and I were given homes in that
area, but I declared mine the Roclawzi embassy and sent
word to my brother that he should send an ambassador or
two.

The rest of the homes were given out based on the num-
ber of years individuals and families had been in thrall to
the Reithrese. An effort was made to redress the losses of
those who had seen their homes destroyed, their families
slain, and their wealth stolen by Tashayul's host. Disputes

264 Michael A. Stackpole

arose and there was some fraud, but Beltran and his judges
cut through all, meting out justice swiftly and sharply to
those who deserved it, rewarding honesty and redressing
tragedy wherever they found them-

In many ways I think the two most difficult cases
for the Red Tiger to deal with were Aarundel and myself.
Sture had been easy to appease. Newly freed Irtyshites who
had been brought to the capital by their Reithrese masters
swelled the Exile Legion's ranks to nearly double. With
Beltran's blessing, Sture left amid fanfare to liberate his
frozen homeland.

Aarundel studiously sought to downplay his role in the
affair, but did accept a home and a title. Beltran sought to
reward him with more, but Aarundel continually refused.
Finally the emperor offered to write and send to Aarundel's
kin an accounting of his exploits, and the Elf relented with
the proviso that the Red Tiger would no more press him on
the matter of reward.

The Red Tiger could understand, with Aarundel being
an Elf and all, why he might refuse Man-offered honors. I
confused him more when I turned down his request to be-
come his warlord. He wanted to bring the Steel Pack into
imperial service as one of his two bodyguard companies—
an idea to which I agreed after polling my Men and discov-
ering they wanted that as well. I granted him that pleasure
and nominated Fursey Nine-finger to replace me. Other
than that, as I told him, hot food, a warm bed, and cold ale
would be more than enough reward for me.

That was not sufficient for him, however; he advanced
a number of reasons for his opinion, and I had a hard time
disagreeing with any of them- If I did not accept some sort
of position, it would be assumed that I had repudiated our
alliance and it could be taken that I had no confidence in
him. Moreover, I had become a symbol of the revolt, as
had he, and order had to be imposed over things while it
still could be, or the rebellion against the Reithrese might
fall apart without any preparation for the battles that
would still come.

He pointed out, for example, that a number of very
idealistic young men had taken to burning the backs of
their left hands with brands and glowing irons to ape the

Once a Hero   265

scar I had from killing the emperor. The Red Tiger and I
agreed this was nonsense—and regretted the clumsy ones
who managed to burn their hands off—so we established
that the soldiers in Emperor's Own Steel Pack were to wear
a branded leather glove on their left hands in honor of
Lord Neal, Knight-Defender of the Empire, and that they
would not take kindly to anyone lampooning this tradition
outside their ranks. As the brand they used the six-lined
rune for the Roclaws, which didn't look anything like my
scar, but reminded people of me anyway and got their
point across.

Being so honored both gratified and terrified me. I must
admit pleasure at how readily the men of the Steel Pack
agreed to wearing the gloves. What the Red Tiger and I
had created as the solution to a problem, they embraced
proudly as a newborn tradition. A greater troop of war-
riors I could not imagine commanding, and I admit to feel-
ing a thrill when I heard ballads sung in our honor.

I had agreed to the title only because the Red Tiger
trapped me into it. If I had no title, then the honor the Steel
Pack showed me would be thought a fraud, and I would
dishonor them by refusing a title. I bargained hard, so the
purview of the Knight-Defender of the Empire was to go
where I wanted, do what I wanted, alt the while answering
only to the emperor himself—that latter coming only if I
wanted to answer to him, too. The position included a
stipend, which I didn't want, but it proved useful for keep-
ing Shijef in sheep so he'd stop eating dogs and cats.

A messenger skidded slightly as he rounded a corner
and burst into the chapel with youthful exuberance. He
sucked in a great breath as he regained his balance and
tugged his tunic into shape. "My Lord Knight-De-
fender . . ."

"Neal will do, there." I squinted at him- "Clarmund, is
it?"

He looked surprised. "Yes, sir, my Lord. Ah, my Lord, I
have been sent by the emperor to request your presence in
the imperial audience hall. An embassy has arrived, and he
deems it important for you to be present."

I smiled. As much as I eschewed anything that had the
vaguest hint of officialdom about it, I had been looking

266    Michael A. Stackpole

forward to seeing whomever my brother might have sent to
represent the Roclaws in the imperial court. Not having
spent much time in the Roclaws since Tashayul's death, it
occurred to me that I might not have any clue as to who the
ambassador might be, or where that person stood amid the
various Roclawzi factions, but seeing a fellow countryman
would be a joy nonetheless after all this time.

I followed Clarmund out from the chapel and around
to the staircase that spiraled up and around the tower. It
had a twin on the far side with which it danced around but
never intersected. That stairway had been cut more broadly
and had been decorated with carvings that must have ex-
cited the Reithrese. Mercifully the Red Tiger had their art-
work covered with tapestries, and not a few rugs hung to
the same end. While that stairway served well for formal
parties going to the second level of the tower, I preferred
the plain servants' stair, because ostentation makes me itch
and you can't beat a servants' passage as a place to pick up
great gossip.

The imperial audience hall had been designed and deco-
rated by a Reithrese who appeared not to have been as
lugubrious as the chapel's architect. The whole room had a
woodland feel, with columns carved to look like trees, their
branches spreading out and up to form the ceiling vaults.
The ceiling rose high enough to break up through the next
level, and little viewing galleries had been carved within the
branches so anyone in the chamber above could took down
upon the proceedings. The walls had been painted with
pastoral and woodland art, though the creatures repre-
sented ran long toward predators, and more than once
Men were pictured as the object of a hunt.

Though I should not have thought it odd of a peo-
ple who have gems for teeth, the throne was a remark-
able piece of work. Fashioned from a smoky quartz, the
throne's back appeared to be a giant incisor. The seat and
arms were shaped from molars, and two long, upturned
fangs arced up and out to curve above the emperor. The
fittings that joined all of these teeth together were gold and
set with gemstones which, I knew from previous examina-
tion, were Reithrese teeth and were rumored to have been
taken from Tashayul's rivals for power.

Once a Hero   267

What I did not know, and really did not want to know,
was if the giant teeth were carved by artisans or had graced
the mouth of something far too big to make me comfort-
able.

The chamberlain was about to announce me, but I
waved him to silence and wandered down through the
stone garden to where a small delegation of four stood
speaking with the emperor. I recognized Aarundel but
didn't question his presence initially, because he had met
my kin in the mountains. His presence made sense. It was
not until I saw him gesture with his right hand that I real-
ized in it he held the hand of the woman standing next to
him. I mentally revised that to sylvanesti next to him and
felt my heart begin to beat faster.

Beltran looked up and eased the crown back on his
head. "Ah, my Knight-Defender hath arrived. You know
him, of course. Ambassador."

The Elf standing opposite Aarundel on the left side of
the throne turned and nodded in my direction. "He served
as vindicator for Aarundel when he and my granddaughter
Marta were wed." His voice remained neutral, but I felt a
bit of respect when he inclined his head toward me. "I am
pleased to see the Reithrese have not yet harvested you."

"And I am pleased to see you again, Sidalric Consil-
liari." I stopped and bowed formally to him. As I straight-
ened up, I smiled at Marta. "And you. Lady Marta."
Turning back toward Sidalric, I racked my brain to remem-
ber Marta's mother's name, for I felt certain she had to be
the veiled sylvanesti attending the ambassador. Grationa,
that's it.

As I started to speak, the sylvanesti stepped away from
the ambassador and, with hands sheathed in fawn leather,
raised the white veil she had worn. Words died in my
throat, though my mouth did remain open. I blinked, twice
and again, then forced myself to resume breathing. "Doma
Larissa, I am honored."

"It is my honor to be in the presence of the Knight-
Defender of the Empire." She gave me a smile that set my
heart to burning more fiercely than the old emperor's
sword ever had, and I hoped it was a fire that would never

268    Michael A. Stackpole

go our. "Tates of your bravery and ferocity have reached
even unto Cygestolia."

I coughed into my hand, then shook my head. "My
Lady, you are far too wise to believe even a portion of
them, for you know they are nine parts lies to one part
rumor."

Larissa just smiled serenely. "But even if those rumors
were nine parts exaggeration, the one part truth in them
would make you more than worthy of the praises sung in
your name."

"You are most kind, my Lady."

Beltran clapped his hands. "You are indeed special,
Lady Larissa. I have fought for a month to get Neal to
acknowledge his part in our victory, and he evades it as if
praise were a whipping. You tame him with a glance and a
turn of phrase."

I gave him a stare of pure poison. "She's had years of
dealing with stupid animals. Majesty."

"Centuries, actually."

I clutched my chest with my left hand. "And in all that
time, never so deftly did you wound one so deeply."

"I'd vouchsafe never had she dealt with one so contrary
as my Knight-Defender."

"I believe you will recover, my Lord." She smiled at me
teasingly.

"Your words are balm to my wound, my Lady."

"Wit and charm from Neal?" The Red Tiger scratched
at his beard. "My Lady Larissa, you are a miracle worker.
Though I regret being parted from your company, I might
suggest you minister to my Knight-Defender in the stone
ocean on this level. And you, Aarundel, if you would care
to show your lovely wife yet another part of this tower, the
ambassador and I can begin some discussion of issues com-
mon to his realm and mine."

I bowed deeply toward the throne. "Then, my Liege, I
beg of you leave to escort Lady Larissa to the ocean."

Beltran frowned. "I believe I prefer reluctance to sat-
ire."

"Your wish is my command."

"Get out of here, Neal!" he shouted in mock command-
"My Lady, go with him, cure him if you can, and give me

Once a Hem   269

back the Neal of old. If you cannot, this one you may keep
with my compliments."

Though built by the Reithrese, I found the stone ocean
interesting. The room in which it had been placed had been
constructed to appear to have been rough-hewn out of
black basalt. The floor had been covered to a depth of
nearly a foot with knucklebone-sized marble stones of the
purest white. Big jagged hunks of azurite and turquoise
decorating the floor erupted through the white stone ocean
like fangs tearing through flesh. I knew they were meant to
be islands, but because of the throne, the tooth image stuck
in my mind and would not go away.

A mahogany shoreline hemmed the ocean in and pro-
vided enough of a walkway for observers to circle the
and study it from all angles. Caretakers—once

ocean

slaves, now respected freemen and part of the imperial
household—raked the marble stones into patterns that cor-
responded to constellations or anything else that struck the
caretakers' fancy, I imagine- The patterns were not openly
representative, but held shapes the way clouds do when
you take the time to look at them on a lazy afternoon.
Depending upon the angle and your mood, the still waves
of the stone ocean could form anything.

I had taken to spending a lot of time there- I appreci-
ated the quiet, yet liked being nearby in case a question
arose upon which the emperor might like or tolerate my
opinion. I also know the stone teeth and the white stones
reminded me a lot of the Mountain Men trapped to the
south and also reminded me of my home. I found I did a lot
of thinking in that room, which is not a bad thing in and of
itself, but having spent my life preferring action to contem-
plation, it marked a new and slightly scary change.

Larissa's face brightened as she passed through the
threshold. "Oh, this is magnificent."

I blinked away surprise. "You like it?"
"It is beautiful. Of course I like it."
"But it's so devoid of life, I thought . . ."
She stopped and looked at me. "You spend a lot of time
here, do you not, my vitamora?"

270   Micfcwf A Stackpole

I nodded.

She smiled and stretched out her arms. "I can feel your
presence. This may once have been a Reithrese place, but
you have made it your own. And as you love this place, so
do I."

We sat down in silence, studying the flow of stones.
Though no signal passed between us, I knew we were let-
ting our eyes track across the same frozen waves and swiris
in the pattern. As we traced our way through the ocean's
currents and eddies, the two years since we had seen each
other evaporated.

"It has been so long, yet it feels as if we danced together
yesterday." I wanted to reach out to her, and started to,
then withdrew my hands. "It is very good to see you
again."

Her chin came up and her eyes sparked with mischie-
vous fire. "We have seen each other since then, my love.
There have been dreams."

I blushed. "The dreams, I remember many. I often
feared for my life if I mumbled in my sleep, since your
brother and I often shared a tent or a room during the
campaign. Never did I dare tell him about the dreams."

"Nor did I speak to my husband of them."

I frowned. "You speak as if we had the same dreams."

"We did, Neal." Larissa knelt on the floor and deli-
cately shifted a stone from the crest of one wave to the
next. "This is but an aspect of being vitamorii. My brother
would never have noticed your midnight whispers because
likely he was sharing dreams with Marta. At least, she says
it was so."

I smiled, but felt cheated. Had I known those dreams
were more than just my imaginings, I would have clung to
them more tightly and fought to remember them. "I had no
idea."

She pressed a gloved finger to her lips. "Nor do any of
the others. If they imagined we shared dreams, there is no
telling what the reaction would be. This is our secret."

"Agreed." I leaned back against the wall. "How is it
that you have come here?"

"When Beltran's missive arrived m Cygestolia, the Con-


Once a Hero   271

silliarii decided to send an ambassador to open relations
with this new Human empire."

I did not conceal my surprise. "That is a change from
the last time they dealt with a Human empire."

"And that change is largely your fault, my vitamora."
Larissa plucked at a fold of her skirt and smoothed the
cloth against her thigh. "Your example helped blunt the
forces that wanted a second crusade."

"Of that, then, I am thankful. Still, that explains why
Sidalric is here. Why have you come?"

"I had no choice." She adjusted the folds in her brown
dress's skirts. "As vindicatrix, I had to be present at the
time when Marta presented her Petition of Fecundity to the
Consilliarii."
' "Her what?"

Larissa nodded, her eyes narrowing for a moment; then
she smiled. "When Levicius and Alosia created us, they
gave little thought to reproduction. For them it was suffi-
cient that there was a mechanism by which we could in-
crease our number. They chose, therefore, to make Elven
women fertile for the period of a month or so after in-
gesting the fruit of the apple tree."

"Apples?"

"Not the red and green fruit you know, but a special
apple with golden skin that grows in a single grove in
Cygestolia. Because we have long lives, we determined that
access to that fruit should be limited and only those who
have done something remarkable should be allowed to
bring offspring into the world. This is why Elven children
are rare and treated as a great gift to the parents and to
both of their families."

Part of me thought that tyranny; then I remembered
seeing hordes of children running through the streets with
no one to tend them or care about them, and I wondered if
the Sylvan system might not have advantages. "Marta has
petitioned the council to be allowed to have a child?"

"She has, and the Consilliarii have granted the peti-
tion." Larissa shrugged. "As much as they might like to
deny it, Aarundel's exploits here in the Manworld have
been remarkable, and having a child will mean he wilt not
venture from Cygestolia for the next half century."




272 Michael A. Stackpole

Half century? She said it so matter-of-factly, yet I knew
I would be dead and gone before that time had passed. "So
you accompanied Marta here so she could tell her husband
about the petition grant?"

"Yes, and for another reason."

My spirit buoyed up. "And that was?"

"I am the vmdicatrix and you are the vindicator. As we
stood with them at their wedding, it is our duty to stand
with them when they are given the golden fruit."

I folded my arms over my chest- "But we don't have to
be there for the conception part, right?"

Light Elven laughter filled the room, forever banishing
the last bit of gloom from it. "No, we do not, though re-
membering those dreams, were my brother to require in-
struction, you would be an excellent tutor."

I fought to keep a blush from my face. "I tend to dream
larger than life."

"What harm fantasy if it gives pleasure?"

"None." I laughed to myself, then rubbed a hand over
my face. "So is the ambassador speaking to the emperor
about where the ceremony will be held?"

"I do not know, but of what concern it would be to the
emperor I don't know."

"Larissa, the emperor owns this city- Everything is his
concern."

"Ah," she smiled, "I see your confusion. No, he is not
speaking to the emperor about that aspect of the cere-
mony."

"Then what are they discussing?"

"Among other things, the ambassador is conveying to
the emperor a request from the Consilliarii." She inno-
cently tucked a lock of golden hair behind her left ear.
"The presence of his Knight-Defender is required in Cyges-
tolia for a ceremony, and Sidalric is requesting permission
for you to travel there with us immediately."

Chapter 19

The Hospitality
of a Strange House

Spring
A.K. 499
The Present

'Gena watched in stunned silence as Berengar shifted his
shoulders to loosen them. "Being an assassin come to slay
I' you, uncle, I will cause to be brought here a company of
'^ nubile girls who will sorely test your virility. I will give you
^,^a week, no two weeks, for you to exhaust yourself."
^.   The old man's jaw gaped open ever so slightly. "Two
.^. weeks of wenching would not slay me."
:^:    Berengar shook his head. "I know that, uncle, but after
^'the two weeks, when you lay in your bed, I would sneak up
^and tell you that your wife was again alive."

Atholwin's eyes widened, and Gena thought for a mo-
ment that his heart had ceased beating; then he began to
laugh aloud. His laughter reminded her of the raven's call,
and the black bird joined its master in cold mirth. "Hilde-
garde! The sight of her alive nearly slew me, so after forty
'% years in a vault she would be my death. You win."

&!
\f''




Berengar bowed his head. "I win only because my
ther is not here."

274    Michael A. Stackpole

"There are many who are not here." The old man's
voice drained of pleasure, and he seemed to refocus his eyes
on Berengar in a way that made Gena uneasy. "Who is this
you have brought with you? Have you a wife now, Beren-
gar?"

"No, uncle, I have no wife, though were I to marry, I
could think of worse matches." The count turned and
gently guided Gena forward with slight pressure on the
back of her elbow. "May I present Lady Genevera of
Cygestoha."

"An Elfess?"

Berengar frowned slightly at the use of the clumsy term.
"Yes, uncle, she is Sylvan, and a companion in an impor-
tant quest- We are bound for Jarudin."

The old man nodded for a moment, then his head froze
in position and his eyes focused distantly. Gena felt uncom-
fortable because his eyes looked beyond her, as if into a
world she could not sense and could not influence. "Elves
have not been about in the land for a long time. Last one I
saw was with Neal Elfward."

She started, and Berengar gave her elbow a gentle
squeeze. Gena looked up at him and he shook his head
slightly. His eyes promised an explanation, so she con-
trolled further reactions to the old man's words.

"Uncle, we have ridden a long way. If you would grant
us the hospitality of your home."

"Yes, yes." The old man clapped his hands inaudibly,
but the servant who had shown them in appeared as if
summoned by magick. "Tobert, take them to rooms. Give
my nephew Osberic's room and this Elfess, give her Mil-
dred's room. They will )oin me for supper, so we will have
the best of the house."

"As my lord wishes." The servant bowed toward them.
"If my lord and lady would follow me."

"Until this evening, uncle."

The old man nodded, then slipped into another fugue
that left him staring at the goblet on the table. The raven
cawed defiantly and hopped to the man's shoulder. Gena
shivered and gladly left the room.

The upper floor of the main building had not been clut-
tered with debris and weapons' caches, but it seemed only

Once a Hero   275

slightly less forbidding than the hall below. In her room
Gena found a layer of dust thicker than that which the
road had deposited on her boots. Dust kittens followed in
her wake, snatching playfully at her heels before they rolled
beneath the bed. The bed itself, with musty sheers and sour
straw mattress, creaked horribly when she sat upon it. She
imagined the whole thing collapsing, bringing all four posts
and the canopy they upheld down on her as if they formed
a snare.

Berengar gently knocked on her half-open door. "May
I?"

Gena nodded. "Please, and you might want to close the
door."

"Agreed." He started to sit in a chair, then tipped it
forward and banged it against the floor to knock free most
of the dust. "1 had heard stories about Atholwin, some of
which I related to you, but I did not think things had got-
ten this much out of hand. His sons' deaths have clearly
hurt him, but he's harmless, I'm fairly certain."

She arched an eyebrow at him. "Forgive me if the Man
hanging in your oak does not reassure me of that. When he
asked you to tell him how you would kill him, I started
looking for a way out."

"Yes, I can imagine how odd that appeared." Berengar
seated himself and slowly stroked his beard. "Uncle
Atholwin has forever been obsessed with inheritance,
death, and ancestors- I don't know why, he just has been.
He used to tease my brother and me with his 'secret knowl-
edge' of our plans to do away with him so we would in-
herit his holdings. I know he did this with his own sons and
grandsons as well, so it was not isolated behavior."

"Nonetheless, it is ghoulish."

"True, though I guess I always just saw it as an eccen-
tricity." He sat forward and rested his elbows on his knees.
"His obsession led to his petitioning the emperor to legiti-
mize our line. I don't think he did that to give him or his
descendants a reason to try to overthrow the emperor as
much as he wanted it to be pan of his legacy. I think he felt
our gratitude to him would mean that he would live for-
ever in the annals of his family,"

That made an odd sort of sense to Gena. "But you said

276    Michael A. Stackpole

before, that his sons had been killed because of throne poli-
tics."

"Well, that is the rumor, I don't know that for certain.
Still, there are a number of families with imperial holdings
that take claims to the throne seriously. The legitimization
of our line has effectively distanced older families from the
throne, since we descend from one of the more recent em-
perors."

Gena frowned. "Your uncle seems to think he met Neal
and Aarundel."

"Atholwm was a scholar of folktales and legends in his
younger days. I learned all that I know of Neal from him
during the summers I spent here- Atholwin thought it his
duty to keep Neal immortal. Like the emperor, he has
sought and cataloged a great deal of information about the
history of the empire and its establishment. Since uncle al-
ways willingly shared his information, and corresponded
voluminously with the current emperor, the emperor
looked kindly upon the suit to legitimize our line." Beren"
gar shrugged- "At least, this is my belief."

"So you are suggesting your uncle's mind is failing
him?"

"I think he so loved stories of the past that he is now
retreating into them. It is a pity, really, because he was
quite witty and charming. His wit, for example, spawned
the assassination game, which you witnessed. The object
was to come up with the most entertaining method for
killing him." Berengar chuckled lightly. "My brother Nilus
was given to elaborate devices and grand plots. I usually
appealed to Atholwin's vanity and had greater success."

Gena walked over to him and gave his shoulder a
squeeze. "I am sorry the Man you remember is being lost
to you. For us, when an Elf reaches an age where he tires of
this world, he travels beyond and begins a new life there.
We are spared watching our relatives age so severely."

Berengar patted the back of her hand. "What is this
beyond^ I have heard it mentioned at various times con-
cerning Elves, but I do not understand it."

Gena folded her arms and began to pace as she consid-
ered how much she could tell him. "In the time of the gods,
when the children opposed their parents and drove them

Once a Hero   277

out, the Elves stood by the parents. As a reward we are
allowed to pass from this world into the place where the
gods have taken up their exile. It is a parting from our kin,
but it is not as sorrow filled as death because we all know
we will meet again there, when we go beyond ourselves."

"If you are not slain in this world."

"Correct."

Berengar glanced up at her. "Men are barred from this
place?"

"That is also correct. I do not know if children of
mixed parentage would be allowed to go or forced to stay
because none have survived to the point of asking to go
beyond."

The count sat back and smiled slightly. "So those Elves
who believe Neal's influence has destroyed Sylvankind do
have a place where they can retreat from Men after all."

"True, but I do not think Neal would gainsay them that
sanctuary." Gena smiled as she remembered something her
grandaunt used to say when speaking of Neal. "Neal Elf-
ward was a hero for this world. Not a hero for Men, but
for the world itself. He would be happy nowhere else and
would begrudge no one what they had, if they would per-
mit him and his world to remain at peace."

"It sounds as if the world now has not changed much
since his time." Berengar stood and headed toward the
door. "Let us hope we can change it for the better before
his dream dies forever."

Gena used the two hours between Berengar's departure
and the call to dinner to rest. Dreams came to her in bro-
ken pieces that included a gang of men wearing masks and
white robes dancing around the oak tree while a man
twitched at the end of a rope. That scene brought her
awake in a cold sweat. She tried to sort through the sym-
bolism in the images, for she did not believe the dream
prophetic or clairvoyant. She decided she had imagined the
scene at the tree in the worst possible way, and clad the
men in ghostly white robes because they had to have been
vassals of Atholwin, and she already saw him as a living
spectre of a man.




She washed up in a basin and changed her clothes, us-
"iing her old blouse to wipe the dirt from her boots, then

278 Michael A. Stackpole

went down the stairs. Tobert met her at the bottom floor
and conducted her to a dining hall, which, though many
times larger than the audience chamber she had first en-
tered, had been illuminated by only four more candles.

He seated her in the middle of a table over two Man-
lengths long and a quarter that in width. Berengar sat at
the end of the table on her right hand, with Atholwin and
his bird taking up the other end. Tobert brought the food
in seven courses, though, sum and total, what he served
each of them would have filled only two normal plates.
Gena thought, at first, that she might have been slighted
because of a mistaken belief that she did not eat meat, but
she noticed Berengar's rations were as small as hers, and
both of them were given food in generous proportion to
that which was placed before the master of the house,

While possessed of a healthy appetite normally, Gena
did not regret the meager amount of food offered. The
soup, a largely vegetable dish, came thin and neither hot
nor cold. She understood that its being springtime meant
fresh vegetables were rare, but the grit of sand beneath her
spoon as she ate made her wonder why the food had not
been washed before preparation.

She picked at what was served and largely contented
her stomach by consuming some potatoes that were small
and odd looking and only slightly mealy. The bread like-
wise proved edible if bland, but the slatherlard was rancid,
so she avoided it. She was offered a tiny cut of a greasy
meat that Tobert called "rock rabbit," but she gently re-
fused it, having no desire to learn what rat or squirrel
tasted like.

Atholwin hardly ate at all. He spent most of his time
talking, and chances were, when he remembered to eat
something, the raven had already consumed most of what
had been served in that course. The old man showed no
affection for the bird, nor gave any sign he even noticed it,
yet Gena sensed a bond between them. The old man would
stop all speech and movement until the bird shrieked,
bringing him back to the present with them.

His nattering proved easy to ignore, primarily because
Earl Blackoak's cellars contained superior vintages. A dif-
ferent wine came with each course, and the better ones

Ones a Hero   279

^
i!'^'

ri"

•%;

-f

» f '•
^'^ '

^."-tef

ir

-^

->--i

-^

•a-t

actually made up for the paucity of food and the state
of the cuisine. Gena took care in drinking because she did
not want to be drunk when it came time to sleep in this
strange place. Berengar and his uncle consumed their wine
with much more enthusiasm, and the more intoxicated
Atholwin became, the more sensible and coherent was his
conversation.

With uncharacteristic strength he hammered his fist
against the table, then thrust a finger toward Berengar.
"You are here to kill me. You want it all yourself, don't
you, boy?"

Berengar smiled at first, then became wary when the
angry tone in Athoiwin's voice cut through the wine. "No,
uncle, I do not want you dead. I came here to see you
because I am traveling north."

"Spying for Hardelwick are you? He doesn't trust me,
though I have pledged my fealty to him. I'll see you swing
for this betrayal, Berengar."

The vehemence and energy in the old man shocked
Gena. "My lord, Berengar speaks truly. He is not here to
kill you."

The old man turned on her, his eyes frighteningly clear.
"Lies' I have my sources. I know his mind and yours. Be-
trayers both, now and forever."

"Uncle!" Berengar threw his napkin on the table and
came around to Gena's side. "You have had too much to
drink."

"I am not powerless, Berengar." The man's eyes wid-
ened, and spittle gathered at the corners of his mouth.
"You will see. You and the sylvanesti witch. You plot
against us and you will pay!"

Tobert stepped from the shadows and helped Atholwin
from his chair, then passed him into the keeping of two
Soldiers. The raven took one last morsel from his plate,
then flew off into the shadows in the room's vaults. Tobert
shivered and slid his master's chair into place.




"I must apologize for him, my lord and lady."

Berengar straightened up and folded his arms. "Is he
^normally like this?"

^  "It has been getting worse, my lord. This outburst, it is
Hoot unique. This time he directed it at you, but often he

280 Michael A. Stackpole

rebukes the shades of his sons Osberic and Analdric for
their plots against him. Please, wait here a moment."

Gena looked up at Berengar as the servant disappeared.
"What now?"

"I don*t know, but I do not like the idea of my weap-
ons' being in my room."

Tobert returned with an old bottle and two tiny glasses.
"Your uncle is considerate when not in one of his moods.
He specifically told me to make sure this brandy was served
tonight. It is very good and will help steady your nerves."
He looked off in the direction the soldiers had taken the
old man. "I will get some into him later and make arrange-
ments for you to leave by first light so this encounter is not
repeated."

Gena accepted the brandy and forced herself to sip it. It
did taste very good and warmed her throat and stomach.
She watched Berengar quaff his drink, so she followed suit
with the remainder of hers. Tobert then led them from the
dining hall back to their rooms.

"Please, do not think harshly of Earl Blackoak. He re-
members many enemies without remembering they are
dead."

"We understand, Tobert. Lady Gena and I will be ready
to ride at dawn."

Gena bowed toward Berengar and bid him a good night
before retreating to her own room. Once she had closed the
door, the musty, dusty room made her think of a tomb. She
got herself ready for bed and lay down, but her mind re-
mained active enough to hold sleep at bay. Every creak and
windsigh sent shivers down her spine. Her reactions dis-
gusted her because she knew she was far too old to be
cowering in bed like a scared child.

She got up again and remembered how Rik's presence
had made her feel secure no matter how unsettling or diffi-
cult a circumstance had been- Things could be worse, he'd
say, unless we take steps to make them better. She smiled at
the memory and decided to take his advice to heart. After
some preparation, which included sliding the chair beneath
the doorknob, she returned to bed and surrendered to
sleep.

Once a Hero   281

"Arise, Sylvan witch, and look upon the instrument of
your death!"

Gena's eyes came open, and her breath caught in her
tfaroat. A half-dozen men in white robes stood around her
bed. Three of them, two at either side of the head and a
third far back at the foot, remained motionless and bore
thick black candles with odd sigils worked into them. The
names wavered and capered in perfect synchronization
with each other. With each flicker she felt the ebb and flow
of energies that blocked her ability to concentrate enough
to work magick, and she knew that as long as those three
men remained magickally linked, she would be powerless.

Within the triangle, two men with silver swords flanked
Atholwin. The old man, whose limbs showed none of the
signs of the weakness or palsy she had seen earlier, held a
wavy-edged dagger out for her inspection. The raven on his
shoulder made no sound, but its eyes glowed with an un-
holy red light that splashed bloody highlights over the
blade's razor edge.

"We saw betrayal in you, witch, and that will not do."
The old man cackled, and his lips quivered as he raised the
blade and leaned forward. "Betrayal is lying, and now you
must be severed from the Truth."




Chapter 20

The Hostility
of a Familiar Wood

_x

Autumn
Reign of the Red Tiger Year 3 I

Imperium Year 1
five Centuries Ago
My Thirty-seventh Year

Despite the desire by the Elves to leave immediately, Em-
peror Bettran Primus talked Aarundel into being feted be-
fore we departed. While the formality of the feast, and the
lies called testimonials, made me twitch, I genuinely en-
joyed myself. And when the Steel Pack lined the road lead-
ing out to the east so our party had to pass beneath their
crossed lances, my heart swelled with so much pride, I
thought it would burst.

And even the emperor wore a branded glove on his left
hand when he saw us off.

The ambassador remained in Jarudin along with his
servants and a dozen Lansorii. Another dozen Lansorii ac-
companied us on the road and, to an Elf, they seemed less
than pleased to have me along. The Dreel filled out our
party and we traveled light because, using the magical
Elven pathways, our journey would take only four days to

Once a Hero   283

reach the edge of the Elven Holdings and another week to
reach Cygestolia itself.

We departed from Jarudin early in the morning and
rode east despite Cygestolia being almost due west of the
Capital. The nearest grove in the Eiven network lay to the
east not more than twenty-five miles, so we took our time
reaching it. Our party actually spread out on the road, with
a half-dozen warriors as point and flank guards and six as
the rear guard. The fact that Shijef ranged far and wide
through the woods surrounding the road did not appear to
attract their notice, nor did Larissa's and my riding slowly
and trailing the whole company.

The two of us did not talk much on the ride, but not
out of fear of being overheard, for the Lansorii stayed as
far away from us as they could. We didn't need to speak as
we rode through sun-spotted forests and beside gurgling
streams. It seemed enough that we were sharing the experi-

. cnce of the ride together. I drank in every detail I could of
the landscape and would have gladly used it to replace my

" recollections of alt the battles I had fought during my life.

., My martial past seemed but an illusion when Lanssa and I

: were together.

When we reached the grove, I set up a campsite re-
moved from that shared by the Elves. While Aarundel,
Marta, and Larissa—especially Larissa—were solicitous
toward me, the other Elves clearly wanted as little as possi-

- Ble to do with me. Aarundel was so happy to be with

. Marta again, I don't think he noticed their attitude toward
roe. Though I could not blame him for their feelings or for
his ignorance of them, I did feel a bit abandoned. Seated

'^lone, poking deadwood sticks into a fire, melancholy be-
gan to smother me like clouds descending on a mountain-
<op.

The Dreel sat himself down on his haunches across
from the fire and watched me with scintillating red eyes.
"Alone you are now. Alone am I, by your doing."

;-- My head came up. "You are alone because you entered




'^contest and lost."

,/'( "And lost you have here, Dreelmaster Neal."
s^ I raised an eyebrow. "Lost, have I?"

284 Michael A. Stockpile

Shijef nodded solemnly. "In war you live. Wither in
peace, you will. Aarundel leaves and you die."

"Ah, you have become a soothsayer, have you?"

A growl rumbled deep in his throat, and I saw the flash
of bright claws, but the Dreel remained where he sat
watching me. "Defeated I was, and abided by our bargain I
have. I will. You my master are."

"But you could now defeat me."

"Could. Will not. Lost once I did." Shijef shook his
massive head. "Not again. My master I will survive."

I said nothing because I knew he was correct. At best I
had another decade or two in my life. I could already begin
to feel myself slowing down. I went to sleep with one series
of aches and woke up with another. When Aarundel and I
had begun to run together, we were both long, lean, and
strong, and he had remained that way, but I had become
scarred and old and slow. I was dying by degrees, and
Aarundel had been too polite to call this fact to my atten-
tion.

The Dreel felt under no obligation to spare me the
truth, but I marveled at the fact that he did not exploit my
weakness. He could have slain me at any time and run off,
but he abided by his bargain. In fact, I found I had more
confidence in his service to me than I did of the Reithrese's
abiding by the deal made between Beltran and Sulane. I felt
confident Shijef would stay with me until my death freed
him, and the majority of my traveling companions felt that
would come sooner rather than later.

Larissa appeared not to share that opinion. She came to
me in dreams that night, and we once again danced as we
had at the wedding. Wearing the same riding clothes we
had worn during the day, we spun and whirled and danced
along the trail leading away from Jarudin. Despite the both
of us wearing gloves, we never touched. We just moved
about each other, slicing across each other's paths in an
intricate weave of flirtation and teasing seduction in which
I felt not slow nor old nor as if I were dying.

In the morning she and I shared secret smiles and read-
ied ourselves for the Journey through the circus translatw.
We said nothing to each other, but our chuckles appeared
as irritating to the Lansorii as they were pleasurable to us.

Once a Hero   285

Our nonverbal communication continued, even on the ride
from Ispar to the fringes of the Elven Holdings, and though
not a word had passed between us, when we arrived at the
yove on the far side of our ride, we led our horses away
from it and on for a short distance before stopping.

Exhausted, I dropped to my knees beside a small wood-
land stream and splashed cold water in my face. She knelt
beside me and pulled her hair back with her left hand as
she lowered her face to the water. Larissa drank deeply,
then licked away the crystalline droplet hanging from the
center of her lower lip.

Sitting back, I watched her, then laughed. "Thank
you."

She wiped water from her chin with her right hand- "To
what do I owe these thanks?"

"For being you." I slowly levered myself to my feet, and
my knees popped audibly. "Yesterday I heard my joints
*groan and snap and I felt old, but that was when I was
"apart from you. In your presence I am rejuvenated. I know
it is only temporary, but it is enough for me."

I snagged Blackstar's reins and patted the beast on the
neck. "I think I will make camp up over there, in those
rocks. It seems a likely place."

"No, Neal, let us work our way down this brook.
Where it curves around that hill there is a small pool and a
^clearing. There is grazing for the horses, and the copse be-
yond it will yield enough deadwood that you can kindle a
small fire."

I turned and looked at her, then on up to where the
Others made their camp in the grove. "I had hoped not to
be so far removed from you."

"The clearing is large enough for two." The dusk's
growing shadows hooded her hazel eyes- "If you would
permit me to join you."

My heart began to beat faster as an icy viper coiled in
my stomach. "But what would they think?"

"They will think what we already know." She gathered
'up her horse's reins and started to lead the gelding down
^the path along the stream. "My brother trusts us both im-
^,pHcitly. He knows us better than we know ourselves- He




286    Michael A. Stackpole

knows that though we might wish it to be otherwise, we
will not violate the laws that divide us."

Aarundel's words to the Elven Council rose from my
memory to snng me as I followed her- "Your brother told
the council that I knew my place and that I would never
dream of dragging a sylvanesti down to my level by visiting
abominations upon her. He said I knew I was not worthy
of you." As I repeated his words, I felt the hurt they caused
me throbbing anew. I tried to keep the pain out of my
voice, but I knew I had not succeeded when I saw it re-
flected in her face as she turned back to took at me.

"My brother regrets those words." She looked up at the
sky through a hole in the forest canopy. "He has given
them a great deal of thought, and he knows that what he
said was wrong. He knows that on an intellectual level and
believes it fervently. You know he would give his life for
you."

I nodded. "And nearly has on occasions too numerous
to count." I sighed. "That is precisely why it is so difficult
for me to reconcile his actions with his words."

"Please understand that our family is noted and even
reviled for my grandfather's belief in the equality of Hu-
manity. He filled our father with his belief, which is why
Aarundel was never recalled by my father and en)oined
from continuing his adventures with you. My father is even
more opposed to anti-Man prejudice than Lomthelgar, and
he did his best to instill his beliefs in us, his children."

I bent down and plucked a yellow daisy, then Larissa
took it from my hand and tucked it behind her left ear
before continuing. "What my father did not realize was
that we had a whole culture that had retrenched itself be-
hind anti-Man revetments. Before Lomthelgar, everyone
had been anti-Man, so no laws to petrify that altitude were
necessary. As Lomthelgar began to make Elves think about
their pre)udice, legislation slipped into place to prevent the
denaturing of our Elven heritage. My father, in his early
years, was considered all but heretical. As Aarunde! and I
grew up, we were merely seen as peculiar for our attitudes.
The placement of laws meant we were not a threat; there-
fore, we were not pressed as hard to defend our beliefs as

Once a Hero   287

'Hicalan had been, which means we did not consider them

as deeply as he did."

I began to understand where she was going with her

explanation. "You're saying your brother accepted me as

aa equal without realizing exactly what that meant?"
"Yes, my love. He never considered what it would

mean if you were to fall in love with a sylvanesti. He might

lave risen to your defense, but your being in love with his

sister came utterly unexpected to him."

"Both because you are married and are his sister."
"Yes. As his sister I am sexless, and in being married

any sexual needs are assumed satisfied." She shrugged.
'' "Everything struck too close to home for him, and he re-
dacted without thinking along the lines our culture had de-
^ fined for him."

\'"  The stream curved around a hillock and widened into a
lifllacid pool. We led our horses across the stream itself and
iOBto a grassy plateau that, in the spring, would be flooded
?hy the stream. The long grasses had gone to seed and rus-
I.'t|ed underfoot. A couple of logs had been deposited on the
l^flat by previous floods and gave us a good start on a camp-

1^-
j^ I used grass by the handful to rub Blackstar down; then

|M|1 hobbled him where he could graze and drink as much as
.^•^le wanted. Larissa did the same for her horse. Valiant, then
.^helped me gather up stones for creating a firepit and the
Ill-branches with which to fill it. As we worked, our conversa-
•^Son detoured from the serious course, but both of us knew
^IE would return when we had no more tasks to deflect us
a-^lEom the thought it demanded.

|^.;a, Shijer showed up just as I got the fire started. He casu-
^^ tossed a dead quail at my feet, then slunk off into the
s^d^wing shadows to gnaw at a second, larger bird. 1
h^*ecked the quail to make sure it was a fresh kill and not
^TiSHTion, then dressed it out, plucked tt, and arranged a spit
HfW which I hung it to roast.




Sitting there on a water-worn log, I looked from the fire
at Larissa. "It strikes me. Lady Larissa, that come
,g there will be no sign we were ever here. One simple
and the snows in the mountains will guarantee that

288    Michael A. Stackpole

easily, and all this will be swept away. Time will do that
with me, as well."

She smiled. "You will never be taken from my memory,
Neal. I could not forget you, my vitamora, the warrior who
refuses healing and does not acknowledge defeat." She
laughed lightly. "You have not made yourself easy to forget
among my people. The council was surprised when you
gave the crown to Beltran. Many had predicted you would
keep it yourself and be coming to Cygestolia to destroy

us.

I shook my head. "That was never a consideration."

Her eyes flashed in the firelight as juices from the quail
dripped down and sizzled on a stone. "Why did you refuse
it? You are a leader of men and could have been emperor."

"I may be a leader, but I am not an emperor." Even
though I knew I would tell her anything and everything she
asked, I hesitated for fear my admonition would make her
think less of me. "In the Roclaws my brother, jarlath,
rules. He is two years my senior, yet only half my size
physically. By the time I had seen my sixth summer, I tow-
ered over him and could best him in any sport and give him
a good match in games of strategy and thought. By the time
I was ten years old, I could defeat grown men in combat,
and using a spear and Wasp here, I slew a snow-wolf that
winter- As I grew older, there were many soothsayers who
predicted I would become a great leader and hero."

"And they were correct."

I nodded. "That they were. Roclawzi nobles saw me as
the leader who could rebuild the Roclawzi Empire your
people destroyed in the Eldsaga. I was groomed for that
task. I was raised to believe I was fated to do great things in
the name of Humanity. I would be the instrument through
which Men recaptured that which had been stolen from us.
Of course, my brother remained an impediment to this
plan, but I was young and did not realize it." I shook my
head. "I wanted to believe all that was said of me, and I
almost did. . . ."

Lanssa's dark eyes looked through me. "But you love
your brother."

I smiled. "You inhabit my dreams and know my mind."

Once a Hero   289

**I know your heart, my love, and I do not think you
could bear your brother any enmity."
"But you don't know my brother."

**Yes, but I see how you have become Aarundel's friend.
He would not accept you if you were false or fickle, and
your loyalty to him and to Emperor Bettran tells me
enough about you to conclude what I have."

"My brother is a thinker. Whereas others looked at the
Roclawzi past and sought ways to recreate it, he saw that
our empire had been destroyed by forces from the outside.
He looked for ways to make certain the people of the
; Roclaws could prosper without inviting another invasion
^ by your people or the Reithrese. He determined that trad-
'' t0g with the Dwarves and with other nations would accom-
^ -plish this goal, which many of our nobles saw as an
^ abandonment of our warrior heritage."

^    I looked deep into the fire, down to where the flames
i\ had no color and the coals below glowed bright red be-
i-Kieath onionskin flesh of white ash. "He came to me, when
ri I was sixteen, and outlined his plans for our people to me.
|Mfc asked my opinion and told me that he would abdicate
^ any claim to the throne in my favor if I thought he was
t| ^wrong. He didn't care about power or ambition, he just
^'wanted to do what was best for our people. He put his
^flucure and their future in my hands, and I saw I could not
^,l»(mdle them."

^' I glanced up and my eyes slowly recovered, bringing
; Urissa into focus and form. "I told him I was bound off to
^ Ise a hero, one who would make the Roclaws proud. It was
^ Ns job, I told him, to make certain the Roclawzi still ex-
|^ ,lned to sing my praises. We agreed to that division of re-
^-^ilponsibilities. I fled the land where politics almost turned

-^^Bie against my brother." I shrugged my shoulders. "Many

•s J^ the Roclawzi lords who wanted me to supplant my
^i7 tiCother were very angry with me, which made me more
J^^han glad to have tangled them in their own web of
" "^Ocfacmes. With that as my nearest entry into politics, I had




desire to be the emperor."

Larissa smiled at me. "I would not have guessed that
the explanation- Even with all my brother has told

290 Michael A. Stackpole

"Even your brother does not know about that. Aside
from my brother and me, you are the only one who
knows."

Shijef took that moment to audibly crunch a bone be-
tween his teeth-

1 smiled. "So there it is. Neal Roclawzi left the moun-
tains to become a hero. He left not to win an empire for
himself, but to avoid having to lead the Roclawzi to ruin."

"Then he has satisfied that ambition." Larissa broke a
stick in half and tossed both pieces into the fire. "Has he
other ambitions?"

I watched the sparks from the fire spiral upward until
they died. "I had none until I met you, but I fear Sylvan law
will prevent me from satisfying them." I shook my head.
"For the longest time I assumed I would meet someone
with whom I would have a brood of children and live out
the twilight years of my life. Now that I have met the per-
son with whom I would like to do those things, I cannot. I
suppose I will have to return to the mountains and teach
my nephews all the things I had intended to teach my own
sons."

Larissa's faintly bemused expression slackened slightly.
"You have no children?"

"Despite all you have heard about the proclivities of
Men, I have none I know about." I shrugged. "Given that
plotters almost turned me against my brother, I was reluc-
tant to provide them bastards of mine that they could use
against him or his heirs. I always supposed I would father
children someday, but the war against the Reithrese preoc-
cupied me; then I met you, and since then no woman has
kindled more than a nicker of interest for me."

"I thought, I did not know . . ," She seemed at a loss
for words and still filled with distress.

"What's wrong?"

Worry-furrows creased her forehead. "I realized just
now that because of me you will have no children to carry
on your tradition."

I shook my head. "Fortunes of war."

"No, do not say that." Worry melted into stem resolu-
tion. "Among the sylvanii, children are a privilege granted
the few by the many in acknowledgment of their contribu-

Once a Hero   291

(JOBS to the world. My brother and Marra are being so
honored because of what he has done fighting side by side

-,/^wiA you. The thought of your line ending with you . . .

•^for sae to deny Humanity your progeny . . . this is un-
g^inkable."

jfft  "But I have no interest in getting children on any
t^^KHDan. Were you and I able to create a child, that would
be an honor and a child blessed in so many ways that even
the gods would smile upon him. And I understand the im-
portance you see in children, but if our lines cannot be
muted, I will not overmuch regret dying without heirs of
5-my blood."

"But, Neal, while you and I may never be able to be
together, your son and my daughter might be able to be
together."

My heart felt twisted around inside my chest. The idea
of a child of mine and a child of hers being able to share
Hwhat we could not filled me with happiness. Yet the happi-
l.ness came with a bittersweet tinge as I realized it meant she
|w>uld have a child with Finndali and I would have to cou-
nrfe with someone other than her- The only time before I
^nad felt a similar conflict in my heart came when I first
l^fode away from my home, abandoning it so I could pre-
H«erve it for the future.

^ I swallowed away the lump that had risen in my throat.
JI^I understand what you have said, and I acknowledge the
Iwisdom of your thoughts." I opened my hands helplessly.
|s**I just don't have any interest in selecting a woman to play
;,btoodmare for me. I ... I don't know."

She gave me a little smile that melted away the anxiety
flssad confusion nestled in my breast. "I will find someone
you. I will find you a mate who loves you as much as I

When you are with her, it will be as if you are with
»*

"You can't do that."

"I can, and I will because I love you too much to let you
i out of the world. Perhaps I am being selfish, but I do not
ive to acquiesce to what others say is inevitable."

"Such as my aging and withering away in front of

u?"

Larissa nodded once, her golden hair sliding down to

292    Michael A. Stackpole

veil her face. "I knew that could happen when I first saw
you, but by then it was too late. I accept the pain that will
bring me because it will be nothing in the face of the joy
knowing and loving you has brought me. What we have
together is too special to allow it to be hampered by laws
and customs, superstitions and fears. Our love will tran-
scend it all, even if it takes generations to do so."

The passion in her voice filled me, and had Shi[ef not
splashed his way out into the pool to remind me of his
presence, I might have crawled across the clearing to her
and courted death. Because of his intervention, I remained
in place and poked the roasted quail with a finger. "It
seems done. Are you hungry?"

She nodded. "Yes. I will eat and then, I think, sleep."
I smiled. "Yes, sleep, and perhaps a dream."
"One dream?" Larissa feigned a pout. "Dreams, my
love, very sweet dreams."

I woke with a start as the Dreel shook me to conscious-
ness. "What?"

"Lifeblack floods." He pressed Cleaveheart's hilt into
my hand. "The grove."

I threw back my blankets and stood. "Keep her safe."

Shi(ef growled as I started to run off. "That's a com-
mand, Shijef!" I shouted back over my shoulder as I
sprinted into the night. Wearing only my breeches, I
splashed through the stream. Its cold bite turned my bare
feet into blocks of ice. The chill night wind puckered my
flesh and burned my throat as I gulped down air. My ears
strained for the sound of steel on steel and screams as I ran,
but I heard nothing, and that fact worried me.

Running in the dark along a path that meanders
through a forest is not the fastest or wisest way to get from
one point to another. Thick roots clutched at my feet and
ankles, bringing me down again and again. Each time I fell,
I bounced back up and continued on, my speed only
slightly abated. When I saw large branches in my way, I
ducked beneath them, but countless of their smaller, skele-
tal kin scourged me over the length of my journey.

I crested a hill, then took a rolling tumble down the

Once a Hem   293

other side into a small valley barely twenty yards from the
circus transiatto grove. I concentrated on keeping
Cleaveheart in my hand as I somersaulted down through
brush and bracken and somehow missed solid collisions
with moss-covered stones and the few thick trees on the
downslope. At the bottom I regained control of my body
and huddled in a crouch, waiting for a reaction to my noisy
appearance.

Again I heard nothing, and goose pimples rose on my
skin, though they were not caused by the cold breeze ca-
ressing me. Slowly, moving in fits and starts and going as
quietly as I could manage in the midnight blackness, I
moved to the grove. While my ears and eyes failed me, my
nose did not, and even before I broke through the circle of
trees, I knew what I would find. As I entered the grove, the
moon's wan light carved a nightmare from the darkness.

Elves lay twisted and strewn around the clearing in var-
ious boneless poses of death. Ambushed while they slept,
most of them were naked, and those dressed wore no more
than I did, save one. He had managed to pull on one boot
before two arrows crossed in his skinny chest. The four or
five—no, it was four, but one was in two pieces—showed
signs of having been cut down by swordsmen. The copious
hoorprints in the soft sward had so chewed the land that I
could not clearly identify how many horsemen had at-
tacked them, but I would not have been surprised to know
two dozen or more had been in on the assault.

I squatted next to one of the arrow-slain bodies. The
shaft and fletching were familiar to me from countless bat-
tles with the Haladina- I rolled the body up and over onto
its side, the flesh still warm to my touch. One of the
broadheads protruded from the Elf's back, and the appear-
ance of the barbed tip confirmed its Haladin manufacture. I
cased the body back to the ground, then stalked through
the clearing, counting.

When I reached a dozen, I ran out of bodies. 1 went
back through the camp and reconfirmed my count. The
Lansorii were dead, all of them, slaughtered while they
^slumbered after their hard ride through the circus transia-
tio. On the edge of the Elven Holdings they had not both-

294   Michael A. Stackfwie

ered to set out pickets, and Aarundel would have been too
preoccupied with his wife to have noticed.

"Neal!" Larissa appeared at rile edge of the clearing
with the Dreel rising behind her like a shadow. "By rile

godsl"

Her hands rose to cover her mouth as she drifted for-
ward, and I opened my amis to offer her a safe haven. In
that moment I needed her as badly as she needed me. I saw
her tears glisten in the moonlight, and I wanted to brush
them from her cheeks. I reached out to do that, but the
Dreel swept her out of my grasp.

"Shijef?"

" 'Keep her safe* your command was."

"Then you should not have brought her here."

"In my care, safe she is."

Anger erupted in me. "Then keep her on the edge of the
grove. That is my new command, slave!" A third time I
searched the camp, picking and poking through the col-
lapsed tents and discarded blankets. I listened for any
sound of life and looked for any clue beyond the obvious
concerning the identity of those who had laid the ambush.
And I looked for my friend and his wife.

I don't know how long I searched, but by the rime I
returned to where Larissa sat, the Dreel had found her a
blanket. She rested with her back against the bole of a tree,
her knees drawn up and hugged tightly to her chest. Her
cheeks remained wee, and a few strands of her golden hair
were pasted to her face with tears.

I tossed Aarundel's ax at her feet. "Your brother and
Marta are not among the dead. I saw no blood among their
belongings, though there were quite a few arrows in their

tem."

"Did they run off?"

I knelt and patted the ax. "If they had run, this would
not have been left behind. Aarundel never would have run
from Haladina without a weapon in hand. He also would
have run toward us, to warn us. There are tracks leading
away from here that I will follow in the morning. The at-
tackers, it appears, started an area search, but abandoned it
quickly. I'm thinking, though, I'll not find your brother or
Marta out there."

Once a Hero   295

"Why not?" Her question came wrapped in hope.

"A lot of things, some 1 probably won't recognize for
days, but I know a couple or things that aren't right. Some
of the wounds are bloodless, which means they were in-
Sicted after death. The Haladina have never been neat and
orderly when fighting, but they don't beat up on corpses
as a rule. More important, though, there's not a single
Haladina lying out there, and I'm not going to believe your
Lansorii couldn't account for at least one of them, even in
an ambush."

"But who would do this? Would the Haladina risk add-
ing to the Eldsaga by raiding here in our lands?"

I shook my head, then balled my fists against my desire
to stroke her hair and kiss away her tears. "This was an act
of cruelty—as cruel as the laws that keep us apart right
now—and an act of revenge. The Lansorii died because
your brother dared fight beside me to overthrow Tashayul's
empire. He and Marta were taken as hostages so they can
be traded for something of incalculable value." I raised
Cleaveheart and watched the moonlight skitter down its
unblemished edge. "With this sword comes a means to win
an empire, and those who staged this raid mean to have it
in exchange for the lives of your brother and his bride."

Chapter 21

The Cleansing
Effect of Fire

x

Spring
4.A 499
The Present

The raven on Atholwin's shoulder hopped into the air, and
as it spread its wings, it began to change. Feathers melted
back into black flesh that stretched taut between the bony
fingers of the demon's batwings. Its head expanded and
fattened while flattening. Its two eyes swam up into the
center of the forehead and merged, then split apart into
three eyes that formed a triangle pointing down at the ser-
rated beak. The bird's feet remained the same, but the body
and legs changed to become more anthropomorphic. Little
infant arms sprouted from its sternum, vestigial limbs that
could only clap and grasp and, at points, looked as if they
were part of a baby trying to fight its way to freedom from
inside the demon.

Gena recognized it from descriptions given of the foul
creatures that had served Reithra. It was a ferghun, a de-
mon from some obscure pit of her inferno that seduced
men through their fear of death, promising them much and
denying them everything in the end. Such creatures, as

Once a Hero   297




nearly as she could determine, had not been seen on Skir-
ren since the fall of the Reithrese, and the presence or this
one meant Atholwm had dabbled in dark practices best left
forgotten.

Fear sent a jolt through her that burned away the magi-
cal fog generated by the syncopated candle flames. With a
deliberate speed that seemed ever so slow to her, she
brought her hands out from beneath the thick bedding,
flicked the primer covers off, and thumbed back the talons
on Durriken's flashdrakes. Stabbing the first handcannon
forward, she pulled the trigger and braced as the talon
sparked into the primer pan. After a heartbeat or perhaps
two as hers raced, earsphttmg thunder followed a bright
flash and gout of smoke.

The first ball took Atholwin clean in the chest. It made
a neat round hole over his heart amid the peppering of
unbumed powder that flecked his robe. The old man
sighed explosively, then seemed to collapse in around the
wound, while his dagger twisted and hobbled up out of his
grasp. His body flew back into one of the two swordsmen
behind him, but before they could collide with the can-
diebearer, Gena fired the second flashdrake.

The shot blew straight through the ferghun and the
muzzle-flash burned a ragged hole through the center of the
beast. It screamed in the voice of the raven, wrapped in
anguish and threaded with madness, then began to dissolve
from wound outward. Behind it the candlebearer snapped
forward in an abrupt bow as the ball took him in the stom-
ach. His candle dropped, the flame dying seconds before he
did, and Gena felt her ability to work magick return.

Dropping the flashdrakes m her lap, she grasped the
heavy coverlet and threw it forward to entangle the lone
Standing swordsman at the foot of the bed. Without mov-
ing from her place, she swung her hands wide and gestured
at the two remaining candlebearers. Even as their eyes
cleared and focused on her, the black candles they bore
immediately and completely combusted. Each man reeled
away in a flash of light, with singed hair stinking and white
robe burning.

The first swordsman regained his feet as Gena rolled
from the bed, but never got a chance to close with her. The

298    Michael A Stackpole

door to her room disintegrated beneath a powerful kick.
Berengar, his eyes blazing, swept into the room, turned the
swordsman's thrust with a casual parry, then riposted with
a slash that carried clean through the left side of the man's
chest. A recovery and a lunge sent the entangled swords-
man stumbling back into a human torch, and the both of
them crashed against the wall. The tapestry hanging there
immediately caught fire, and flames leaped from it to the
canopy over Gena's bed.

"Come on, this place is a firetrap!"

Gena scooped the flashdrakes and her old clothes into
her satchel, then picked up her boots and ran out behind
the count. As big as a bear and growling in a suitable man-
ner, he stalked through the house awaiting attack. She fol-
lowed behind him with a spell or two in mind to use if any
more demons opposed them, but they reached the court-
yard unmolested.

"Wait here." Berengar turned to head back into the
manor, but black smoke had already begun to pour out of
the doorway. He ducked his head and disappeared into it,
then came running back out coughing loudly and swiping
tears from his eyes. "Too much fire."

"It was a tinderbox. Lots of debris and old wood."

Berengar smeared soot across his face. "When I heard
the flashdrakes go off, I came running. Now my boots and
clothes are burning up there." He scowled for a moment,
then looked from the building to Gena and back. "You said
the first spell every magicker learns snuffs fires. Can you?"

Gena shook her head. "Magick I can work, but mira-
cles, no." She reached out and pulled him back away from
the building as burning wooden shingles crashed down
amid a shower of sparks. "Let it burn, all of it, then scatter
the stones and salt the earth."

Berengar looked strangely at her. "What happened in
there?"

"I'll tell you as we get our horses and get away from
here. Maybe in the stable we can find you more than )ust
breeches to wear."

The count nodded, and they did find an old polish-
stained shirt amid the tack in the stable. They pulled Spirit
and Teague from the stable and got their packhorses out as

Once a Hero   299

well before the fire spilled over 10 engulf that structure,
While they worked, Gena told Berengar of what she had
seen in her room and shared with him the conclusions she
had drawn from her experience.

"If I had not chosen to load the flashdrakes and keep
them with me because I felt frightened, I would be dead
right now, because they knew how to neutralize my
magick. I think the ferghun would have supplied them with
that information—it is rumored that those demons know a
great many things, including facts hidden in the past or
lurking in the near future."

Berengar shook his head slowly. "A ferghun'? I cannot
believe . . ."

"Believe it, Berengar, I saw it. Its presence there with
your uncle suggests he let his studies of folklore and legend
carry him too far." Gena found her anger growing hotter
than the fire consuming the castle. "It is known that some
of the Haladina worship the Cold Goddess, but I had
• thought civilized Men would have found her a detestable
mistress."

*Tt was not his fault, Gena."

"How can you say that? He would have murdered both
of us."

"He was a frightened old man, haunted by ghosts. It is
not surprising that he sought assurances from the Goddess
of Death concerning his fate and that of his sons."

"The Cold Goddess is a curious mistress to court if you
want sanctuary against death. She and her people are
abominable!"

"But you remember that, we do not." Berengar raked
hair from his face. "Time wears away the cruel edges of
history. Your grandfather fought against the Reithrese, so
; you have the tales directly from him. You know how horri-
ble the Reithrese were. We do not. Men hear only the se-
ductive tales of power that will make us the equal of the
Elder races. For an old man, one who has seen his dreams
of immortality evaporate, that is very seductive. I'm certain
he felt he could master her."

"Another myth disproved."

"Yes, yes, you are right, Gena, but he was sick and not
thinking correctly. Had he been the Atholwin I had known

300    Michael A. Stackpole

in my youth, he never would have dabbled in Reithrese
magicks." Berengar shook his head as he led the horses
through the gate and away from the burning castle. "It is
odd, of course, that in his ravings he was correct; we did
kill him."

"But we did not go there to kill him." Leaving Spirit
with Berengar, Gena slipped away behind a tree to change
from her nightdress into traveling clothes. "We did not be-
tray him, merely stopped him from murdering us, so accus-
ing us of being betrayers was wrong."

"Point well-taken." Berengar took a deep breath and
seemed to slow down. "Please, forgive me, I am over-
wrought."

Gena smiled at him as she returned from changing. "It
was a difficult ordeal for us both."

"Let us hope we face no more in the future." He swiped
a hand over his face, then yawned. "Castle there, burning
hot / roasting and toasting all the clothes I've got . . ."

Gena laughed at his rhyme, and that brought a smile to
the count's face. "So, Berengar, do we press on to Jarudin,
or do we go back to Aurdon and resupply ourselves?"

He frowned and thought for a moment, then nodded.
"We go on, if that appeals to you. We are almost halfway
to our goal, and a return to Aurdon might mean that my
Elders change their minds about our mission. I would
rather fail in Jarudin and return than fail here and return."

"I understand. I have a little gold, and if we forage
while on the road, I think we should be able to make it to
Jarudin. If we need more, we will put you to work spinning
rhymes in taverns for food and lodging."

Berengar groaned and hauled himself into the saddle. "I
would sooner flaunt the Emperor's justice as a highway-
man than sing for my supper."

Gena mounted Spirit and brought the horse alongside
Berengar and his horse. "That may be well and true, but
when we get to Jarudin, explaining away bad rhymes and
worse songs might be easier than dodging reports of crimi-
nal activity, especially when it comes to getting us an audi-
ence with Hardelwick."

Once a Hero   301

"As always. Lady Genevera, your beauty is exceeded
only by your wisdom." Berengar laughed lightly and gave
his horse a touch of his heels. "Let's find a place where they
will trade food for song and pray we get the better of the
bargain."

\

X

Chapter 22

The Fiery Effect
of Truth

_x

Autumn
Reign of the Red Tiger Year 3 I

Imperium Year 1
Five Centuries Ago
My Thirty-seventh Year

Though I had slept for nearly a day and a half since my
arrival in Cygestolia, I felt very tired as I stood before the
Elven Council. Every seat in the council amphitheatre itself
was filled, and Elves of every description clung to the
branches and boughs above and around it. The story of the
massacre and our unescorted journey back to the Elven
capital had spread firefast through the city, and everyone
wanted to be present when the council summoned me.

I suppose that it should not have surprised me that I
had been brought to the council with a charge of miscon-
duct against me or the death penalty hanging over me. I
should have been used to it. In fact, as much as I abhorred
politics, I had to admire the way the charge had been laid
so there would be an excuse to destroy me if I proved to be
as much a threat to Elvendom as some feared I was.

I breathed in slowly, pleased with the calmness I felt

Once a Hero   303

dwelling inside me. "My answer to the charge that I en-
gaged in physical contact with Lady Larissa is that the
charge is false." I glanced to my right where she stood with
Lomthelgar and Shijef. "I charged the Dree! with the duty
of keeping her safe."

I let an edge slip into my voice. "Even at the moment
when she saw the slaughter, in a moment of horror when
any two living creatures would search out a companion for
comfort and reassurance in life, he kept us apart. We
abided by your law even in a situation where that law
stripped us of ail that makes us living, breathing, feeling
, creatures. Your law robbed us of the most basic consider-
; (Rtion and compassion. As unmst as the law was in that

situation, we respected it. On this you have my word, as
L well as that of Lady Larissa and the Dreel."

Most of the Consilliani met my defiance and anger with
, defiance of their own, but when Larissa nodded toward me
; and gave all of them a stem stare, some shrank back from
I tt. Whispers from the gallery buzzed and hummed above
h* me. Though the words escaped me, tones of shock and
^Outrage did not. I could not tell if they were directed at the
' law or my audacity, but I took heart in my ability to pro-
, voke a reaction among a people who saw me as little more
?"< than an animal.

^.   Thralan stood at his place in the council. "Calarianne,
f ,Bo there is no stigma upon my daughter, I demand these
1-diarges be dismissed by acclamation."
r?   Lomthelgar capered forward. "Second!"

The sylvanesti overseeing the proceeding nodded. "If
;- there are no objections . . . seeing none, I have it that the
^•charges are dismissed without opposition."




She raised her staff to bring it down and ad)ourn the
1||jlC6sion, but I raised my hand. "Wait! I must speak to the
^^Bouncil on another matter."

,??,f   Calarianne hesitated and another of the Consilliarii
3^' rose to move that I be allowed to speak. Thralan seconded
^ the motion and it passed on a voice vote. "The council will
Ijfeten to you, Neal Roclawzi."

I bowed my head respectfully to her, then looked up
the Elves facing me. "I understand that it is believed
din raiders slew the Lansorh and carried Aarundel and

304    Michael A. Stackpole

Marta away. 1 must inform you, lest the reputations and
abilities of those Lansorii and my friend be slandered, that
the Haladina did not kill them. The Reithrese did."

"What proof have you of this?" A black-haired Elf
stood in the front row. "By all accounts you arrived too
late to see the raiders."

"I've been thinking on the problem all the while we
traveled here." I held my left hand up with the palm facing
me and my fingers all splayed out. I curled the smallest
under saying, "First off, there were no Haladin bodies
present, and there is no way at least one of them would not
have died. And, without a doubt, the Haladina could have
carried off their dead, but they're not much of a mind to do
that when there is so much loot."

The Elf nodded carefully. "But the bodies were not
looted."

My ring finger curled down. "Another atypical fact
about the fight. I'm thinking I've never seen a battlefield
where the Haladina didn't make off with as much in the
way of booty as they could pile on their horses. Elven ar-
mor and arms were left behind, as well as the personal
effects of the slain Lansoni. The Haladina would have trea-
sured those things, for they would have been seen as pow-
erful both among the Haladina and as symbols of their
skills to their Reithrese masters."

The Elf let a sly grin steal across his face. "Perhaps you
scared them off, Neal Roclawzi."

I shook my head and tucked my middle finger down.
"Any Haladin raider who had just succeeded in slaughter-
ing an Elven patrol wouldn't be frightened by a half-naked
man with a sword. They had bows and could have feath-
ered me while I stumbled about in the dark."

My index finger came down. "This all contributes to
why I know the Reithrese staged the raid. I heard nothing
of the fight, which meant it was over before the Dreel
awakened me. The Dreel remained unaware of the fight
until all the killing had been done, which tells me that some
powerful magicks had been worked to keep the attack
quiet and secret. Those same magicks point out how your
Lansorii could have been taken so quickly. Also I found
evidence of a limited search of the area. That meant they

^,.                                 Once a Hero   305

-t®
^ were looking for Larissa and me. The attackers obviously

-•> laiew who we were, and had they been willing to spend
more time in your forests, I'd likely not be here."

My thumb came in, leaving me a fist- "What happened
that night is this: two dozen Reithrese warriors approached
„ under cover of powerful magicks. Because they can see as
Y welt in the dark as you can, there was no need for torches,

which meant there was one less clue as to their approach—
.   and the Haladina would have had to come with enough
torches to set the whole forest ablaze. They slew most of
the Lansorii with arrows, then herded the rest together.
When they determined I was not there and no one would
tell them where I was, the Reithrese cut down all the survi-
vors save Aarundel and Marta and carried them off."

"Your arrogance knows no bounds, Neal, if you sup-
pose the Reithrese hate you so much to slaughter Elves to
get at you."

"You're a fool if you think I believe it's me they want."
My fist pounded down on Cleaveheart's hilt. "They want
this sword because they think it can be used to restore
Tashayul's empire. Had I been there, all of us would have
died, you would have launched a new campaign to destroy
Ae Haladina, and the Reithrese would have offered to help
you destroy Mankind."

Another of the Consiiliarii stood. "Your tale is fanciful,
Neal, but untrue. The Reithrese have already sent us a mes-
sage of condolence for the deaths and have promised to
turn over the Haladina who did this once they determine
who they were. They are being most cooperative."

"Of that I have not a doubt, Consilliari, because those
leaders with whom you correspond likely do not know
ll who did this. More correctly, they suspect but are without
" hiproof. Without proof, or without pressure from you, they
Will not act just on the off chance that the person who
planned this deed succeeds in having me trade the sword
for his two hostages."




"Impossible! The Reithrese would never condone ag-
gression against us."

;'   "Why not? What would stop them?" I folded my arms
across my chest. "They play the long game, the same way
^fou do. Five hundred years ago, at the time of the Eldsaga,

306    Michael A Stackpole

Lomthelgar's ideas about Men were blasphemy, yet little
by slowly, I'm thinking, enough Elves softened in their
views that you enacted laws to codify and punish what
would have been unthinkable before he began to share his
insights. In the same way, the vast majority of Reithrese
might shudder at the thought of conflict with the Sylvan
Nation, but if this act of aggression is not punished, they
will begin to assume they risk nothing attacking you. The
barrier between you and their lust for power and greed will
be worn down."

"As you say, Neal, we play the long game. If your fan-
tasy were true, we would have much time to deal with it."

I thrust a finger at the speaker. "It is true you would
have a long time to deal with it, but my friend and his wife
would not. Every second they spend in Reithrese captivity
is an eternity. That's the problem with you long-lived be-
ings, and the advantage of being a mayfly. You have per-
spective, but I have urgency I I am impatient- I will not
tolerate my friend, my brother, remaining in captivity for a
moment more than I must. In fact, I ride tonight to free
him."

The Elf folded his arms across his chest and scoffed at
me. "You speak as if you know where Aarundel is being
held and the identity of his captor."

"I do." I pointed off south by southwesl. "Aarundel
and Marta are being held in Jammaq. They are Takrakor's
prisoners, and he wants this sword in exchange for their
lives. That's why there have not been ransom demands
from this mythical band of Haladina. Takrakor knows I
know what he wants, and I'll see to it that he gets it,
though not in the manner he expects."

Lomthelgar cackled aloud. "Mark him, this is the Sec-
ond Time—he speaks in his voice for himself!"

The leader of the Consilliarii struck her staff to the
wooden Soor once, quieting the hubbub Lomthelgar's re-
mark had provoked, "What you have said is disturbing,
Neal Roclawzi, but you are mistaken if you believe we will
give you permission to act against the Reithrese in this mat-
ter."

"With all due and sincere respect, Calarianne Consil-
tiari Primus, you are mistaken if you think I came here to

Once a Hero   307

ask permission. I'm telling you what I'm going to do be-
cause I'm going to use the circii translatio network to get
me to Jammaq and back again. My explanation here is a
courtesy, not a petition."

"No one will teach you how to activate the magick."

I shook my head. "I have already learned, from Lady
Larissa, to facilitate our return here. She did not know I
might have other uses for what she taught me."

The first Consilliari to question me again rose to his
feet. "We can stop you."

"How? Execute me? On what charges?"

He smiled. "I move we reconsider the misconduct
charge against Neal Roclawzi."

Thralan shot to his feet. "Impossible, it was dismissed
by acclamation and cannot be brought up for reconsidera-
tion because of that fact."

I smiled over at Lomthelgar, who had come up with
that bit of strategy in our discussions earlier in the day.
"You cannot stop me, which is good, because Takrakor is
not known for his patience."

The declaration sparked a heated debate and not a few
shouts from the gallery. I watched it rage, but because I did
not understand the words, I gained more from visual cues
than I did from the angry voices. In the heart of the council
-older Elves exchanged grim glances. They looked at me,
: then quickly away, and finally one of them nodded sol-
emnly.

This older member of the Consilliarii stood. Though his
white hair and slightly thick middle would have had me
dismiss him as a threat in combat, he moved with the en-
ergy of a snake coiling. "I am Disantale, and I applaud
your instruction in our laws, Neal. I applaud your respect
"ibr them. I value your bringing to our attention the need
',for urgency in action, as well as your taking us to task for
rile unjust nature of our laws concerning Men."

As Disanlale spoke, I felt a cold dread start to crystal-
lize in my stomach. The council had grown quiet as he

ike, and apprehension seemed to condense in the air. I




ted to run because I knew, as much as he was praising
so would he damn me, and I wanted nothing to do
a condemnation delivered so coolly as this.

308    Michael A. Stackpole

"Neal, your presence here has impressed me, as have
my son's reports of your exploits. If you are exemplary of
Men, perhaps we have misjudged them and you. I offer you
a bargain in return for your cooperation in this matter."

I felt pressure close on me tighter than Shijef's jaws. "I
cannot be swayed from my course, Disantale Consilliari."

"I am known for being persuasive. Hear me out." He
pointed down at a group of Elven soldiers, and I recog-
nized Finndaii among them. "If you abandon this quest,
my son will divorce his wife and we will repeal the law that
keeps you apart from Lady Larissa."

His words hit me harder than any punch I had ever
taken, and were far more effective in driving my breath
from me. My stomach imploded and I felt my heart begin
to ache. I began to fold up around my middle, and I did
sink to one knee, but I used my left hand to stop myself
from collapsing. Despair and joy warred in my brain as
dreams came to life and sought to erase what I could re-
member of Aarundel.

Finndaii stepped forward stiffly. "I willingly pledge
obedience to the decision of the Consilliarii in this matter."

I hammered my fist into the floor. "You bastards. You
sanctimonious, superior, scheming monsters." The emo-
tional turmoil in my head and gut converted instantly into
anger, and I let that anger fill the void in my body. "I
already know you hold me in contempt, but to think me so
simple and so easily manipulable . . . How could you? Is
it arrogance or just cruelty that makes you think I would
jump at this offer?"

I rose from the floor slowly and straightened up to my
full height. "I'm not a dog to be thrown a bone. You
greatly dishonor Doma Larissa to cast her as that bone. I
am well used to being an object of scorn to you, but to
show her such disrespect is unworthy of even your kind.
Had I not a pressing engagement, I'd use Cleaveheart here
and now to slay the lot of you."

I shook my head, still fighting to clear Disantale's
words from my ears. "With one hand you offer to make me
worthy of Lady Lanssa under your law, but to receive that
boon I must refuse to save her brother. Were I to agree, I
would no longer be worthy of her. And you, those of you

Once a Hero   309

who think of Men as oxen with thumbs, you would be
victorious. I would have shown that I was willing to trade
friendship for the embrace of sylvanesti thighs. And you
would have denied us the chance to have children, so this
tasteless compact would have died when I did."

I laughed and wiped away tears. "You know, if I ac-
cepted this bargain, I would be worthy of your revulsion.
The thing of it is that none of you would hate me as much
as I would hate myself.

"I am not an animal. I cherish all those things that you
believe ennoble you as a people. I cling more tightly to
personal friendship and loyalty than you do. It is not a
peculiarity of Man or a man, because I know had I been
taken, Aarundel would be speaking these same words to
j you. He would even risk your denying him and Marta the
' child you used to lure him into this trap."

,   I opened my hands and arms to take them all in. "So
^.tfaere you have it. I, Neal Roclawzi, Elfward, Knight-De-
ll'fender of the Empire of Man, refuse your offer. I am bound
^for a cold, dangerous place to free my friend and his wife.
^'You may take that as a sign of madness. Many of you will.
^,'But I'd rather be mad and away from here, than sane and
^ living among a people that could offer such a shameful
'bargain to block the rescue of one of their own."

Larissa met me in the chamber I had been given in
| ^Woodspire. I was busy stuffing a blanket into saddlebags,
I" so I did not see her at first. When I looked up, I saw her
^iower lip tremble, then white teeth bit at it to still its
^^uivering.

^>. I could not meet her gaze. "I want you to know,
||l|Arissa, that your brother almost lost out today. I almost
i^hose you over him. Please, do not think my choice, my
^^deciding to leave, means I love you any less." Frustration
balled my fists.

"You had no choice, Neal." Her words came calm and
certain, and she did a good job of covering her pain, "I




y much wanted you to choose me, and I hated myself
that. I love you for the fact that you were strong

•ugh to keep from capitulating to them."

310    Michael A. Stackfwie

I shook my head. "Unchecked arrogance cannot be re-
warded." I looked at her again and found I could have lost
myself in the dark pools of her eyes. "I don't ever want to
be apart from you, but I will not sacrifice your brother for
our happiness. I'll be back soon, with them m tow."

"I was thinking that I might accompany you on your
quest. They might need a healer. . . ."

"You may be correct, but so was the Consilliarii. If I
were to lead Elves, even one, into Jammaq, whatever hap-
pens down there could kindle a war that your council
wants to prevent." I grinned wryly and sat down on my
cot. "Having just come through a war, I cannot blame
them for their caution- By going alone, with no sanction
from them, my actions can be denied. Succeed or fail, stay
or go, the Consilliarii wins as long as conflict with the
Reithrese is not heightened. The Reithrese cannot assign to
the Consilliarii blame for anything I do. Best case for the
Council is my death in a successful rescue."

"But that would leave Divisator in the hands of the
Reithrese, and they will destroy the empire."

1 shrugged- "True, not the best case for Men, which is
why the council and I have our differences."

Larissa shivered. "I cannot stand the thought of you
alone in Jammaq."

I grinned. "There will be plenty of Reithrese to keep me
company."

"That is not what I meant."

"Alone he will not be." The Dreel squeezed past Larissa
in the doorway, then sat in the middle of the floor. "To-
gether we travel."

"I travel alone, Shijef. This is my fight."

The Dreel thumped his chest. "Slave I am, master you
are. Lifeblack pools."

I narrowed my eyes. "Listen to me, Shijef, for master I
am. Your master. I'll not be having the Reithrese hunting
down the Dreel for sport because you Joined me in a mis-
sion that fails."

Shijef flicked both of his paws forward to ward that
suggestion off. "With Shijef, fail it will not."

I snarled. "With Shijef I am not. I expressly forbid you
to follow me. That is your master's command!"

^                               Once a Hero   311

^

;i    His agate eyes alt but shut. "Keep Larissa safe?"

"Keep her safe. Do that, Shijef, please- That, too, is an
o«ter"

The Dreel bellowed angrily, then growled at me as he
stalked out of the room. Larissa looked at me and raised an
' (yebrow. "He is not happy."

"That's because he wanted to go along and kill things,
not because he wanted to protect me." The second I said it,
I knew it was not true. "He will see to your safety."
"I would rather he saw to yours."
"You need not worry about me, vitamoresti." I slapped
^ the scabbard on the bed and smiled. "I've got your father
^ sending a message to the Red Tiger requesting the use of
^•Ae Steel Pack by the Knight-Defender, and I imagine that
||Kany Reithrese agents left in Jarudin will mark their depar-
lll'ture at my request and relay that information to Jammaq.
tTakrakor will assume I'll come with an army because only
a idiot would travel to Jammaq alone, and that means I'll
ave the element of surprise on my side."
'•Will you be careful?"

"As careful as I can." I shrugged and smiled to reassure
r. "Don't worry, I will return."
She shivered- "How can you say that?"
I winked at her. "Remember, the gods are perverse
»en playing with us lesser races. What will hurt more, my
ing in Jammaq, or my seeing you again knowing that the
msilliani will never consent to let us be together?"
"You trust in the gods more than I do, I think."
"No, in your love I trust, and in this blade," I smiled as
E"stood and shouldered my saddlebags. "Of the gods I just
"ope that (/ they notice me, they find me diverting and let
^e live just a little longer so I can endure that much more
[Mture."

Chapter 23

The Empire of Dreams

Spring
A.R. 499
The Present

In retrospect, Gena thought, having lost most of their pos-
sessions to the fire at Castle Blackoak had been a blessing
of sorts. At various times, as she had grown up, her grand-
father and grand-aunt had both mentioned that the gods
were perverse and would do all they could to make life
miserable for mere mortals. This had clearly been a case of
their meddling, and though Gena did not find traveling
inexpensively that much of a burden, it clearly wore on
Berengar.

On the road before the fire Berengar had not been soft
or particularly prickly, but there were little rituals of civili-
zation that he liked to observe. Each evening, for example,
he had brewed tea and always made an effort to select
aromatic woods to burn while his water came to a boil. He
was not experimenting to find a new source of pleasure,
but clinging to an old pattern of behavior because it helped
define who he was.

Gena knew, from stories and observation, that Men

Once a Hem   313

fought hard to carve out strong identities. Elves, with their
long lives, were content merely to live, while Men seemed
determined to build around themselves some sort of legend
(faat would live on beyond them. Berengar had been no
exception to that rule, and while he had his baggage and
the trappings of an Aurdon noble, he acted much as she
imagined he would have.

She looked up ahead at where the count rode in front as
they neared a small forest. He still sat up in the saddle, but
tfae steel shaft that had straightened his back had softened.
He had tied his hair back with a strip torn from the hem of
his shirt, and the ends of the cloth flapped in the light
breeze like pennants over his right ear. Bare leg showed
between the hem of his breeches and the low-cut leather
shoes he had won in a game of knucklebones. He moved
Stiffly, still bruised from their village visit three days before
because the local tavernmaster would not pay for song, but
l.did offer them lodging and food if Berengar could best the
Ipocal champion in a bare-knuckled fight.

I*   As if he knew she was watching him, he turned slowly
|"m the saddle and looked at her sideways with his still-
i-irfacked left eye. The swelling had gone down, and the
^ edges of the bruise had turned a jaundiced yellow, but his
fvye remained bloodshot and rimmed with purple. "I have
tJbeen thinking, Gena, that you are a bad influence on me."
1^ "Me?" Gena feigned surprise and urged Spirit forward
|with her knees. "How, pray tell, did you reach this conclu-
|rion?"

f'-  Berengar half shrugged but stopped as a grimace seized
|his face. "All this talk and thinking about Neal is what
it^prompted me to fight with that monster back in Elmglen-1
phink I wanted to impress you with my heroic ability."
!•;  "And you did, my lord." She glanced down at his
IjBcabbed knuckles. "I never expected you to get up after he
pmocked you down the second time, and no one in the
|village thought you would send him down with a single
'unch."

The count grinned and brought his right fist curling up
ito a short uppercut. "It was a good punch, but only one
>f many ... on both sides. I've not been so stiff since I
ell down two flights of stairs as a child."

314    Michael A. Stackpole

Gena shrugged. "I offered to fix you."

"You did, and I refused." He laughed, then cut it off
abruptly and hugged his left arm to his ribs. "I thought that
I could show how tough I was by letting my body heal
naturally, without magick."

"My lord, even Neal was not that foolish." She smiled
at him. "If you wish, when we stop for the night, I could
help you with the pain."

The count paused to consider her offer, then shook his
head- "No, I think the worst of it is over, and I think it is
good that I let it linger. Traveling hurt and living hand to
mouth gives me a perspective I have not had before. Take,
for example, the caravan that you and Durriken rescued
from the Haladina. When I heard of them and when they
arrived in Aurdon, I pitied them. Now, after this, I think I
begin to understand them."

"It is not without good reason, my Lord, that people
are often enjoined to consider other perspectives when
making a judgment." Gena looked around at the rolling
meadows and woodlands. "In Cygestolia there is nothing
even close to this sort of open territory. It is difficult for
most of my people to imagine anyone wanting to live out-
side a forest. In fact, I cannot think of but a few Elves who
would have accepted the lodgings we did last night."

"Yes, spending a night sleeping in a sod house was in-
teresting. I think, before arriving at my current state, I
would have looked down upon those people. While they
were a bit crude in their manners, their hearts were gener-
ous, their wisdom sound, and their concern for two trav-
elers rather inspiring." He shook his head. "They even had
dreams for the future, of expanding their farm and provid-
ing enough for their children and children's children."

"I think that admirable."

"As do I."

"Then why the shake of your head and the beetling of
your brow?"

The count's expression lightened immediately. "Oh, I
was not thinking ill of them or their plans. What had me
confused was Nea! again. When he and the Red Tiger en-
tered Jarudin, the tales say that Neal killed the Reithrese
emperor and took the crown."

Once a Hero   315

"Yes, but he gave it to the Red Tiger."

"Why?"

"Why?"

"He could have had an empire. He could have shaped it
in ways that would have made it last for all time. He could
have made himself into a hero for Humanity, one that
would not have been so easy for us to forget." Puzzlement
again knotted Berengar's brow. "I don't understand his
choice."

"Is that because it was a bad choice, or just the choice
you would not have made in his place?"

Berengar chuckled carefully. "I had not separated those
questions, and I guess I assumed since his choice was not
roy choice, it was by definition a bad choice. Had he chosen
to keep the empire, I might have been able to trace my
lineage back to him, not the Red Tiger. He had his chance
at eternal fame and passed it by."

Gena nodded sympathetically at first, then hesitated. "I
do not know Neal*s mind, but I wonder if he did not think

•the Red Tiger would make a better ruler than he would."

"Perhaps, but to pass up a chance at being able to make
your dreams for the future live—and I know he must have
had them, every man does—I guess the ability to let that
, chance go by is what makes him a hero."

•   "It may well be that indeed." Gena ducked her head
^beneath an oak branch as they rode into the forest. "Since
cyou would not have made Neal's choice, what would you
have done had you won the crown?"
"A good question, that."

"You yourself said every Man has dreams for the fu-
^ tore. What are yours?"

";'   Berengar looked straight ahead and focused distantly.
^ "Had I been in Neal's place, I would have moved swiftly to
^.consolidate the empire and bring it under a strong central
^ rule. The Red Tiger did bring it together, but only because
^ he was the only power in a vacuum. He contented himself
I, making arrangements with local strongmen instead of im-
1-posing his view of the empire from the top down. As a
result, it was only ever really a confederation of states, and
^as you have seen, it has broken apart into the common-
'ealth within the last century."




316 Michael A. Stackpole

He waved his hands at the surrounding countryside-
"Even here in Ispar the instability is palpable—my late,
unlamented uncle being just one example of how badly
things have gone awry. You are right to condemn his dab-
bling in forbidden knowledge, but you must understand
that when things become so out of control, Men search for
ways to gain control. My uncle chose incorrectly, but the
need for stability and control cannot be disputed.

"Stability and control would have been my keys." He
turned toward her, and she saw his eyes alight with an
inner fire. "In a year I would have brought Barkol,
Ludhyna, and Ysk into my empire, and that would have
provided me with enough forces to take Kaudia. I would
have pushed on through the Haladin Outlands and Quom
to destroy Reith."

"My kin might have objected to so strong a Human
presence,"

"But your people are not stupid. Our war would have
been with the Reithrese and, more important, my empire
would have rebuilt and structured Human settlements.
Your people rode out on the Eldsaga crusade because Men
were encroaching on Elven homelands. Under my rule the       ^
old borders and remnants of Reithrese political structures      , ^
would have been swept away. Isn't it ridiculous that we       •'•.'
now, after five centuries, still call the imperial capital by
the name they gave it? The Red Tiger, while he did free us
from the Reithrese, left us culturally enslaved to them for-
ever."                                                     • .

Gena laughed. "There are Elven cartographers who be-
lieve you have stayed with the old names as a courtesy to
them."

"That's an interesting perspective." Berengar shook his
head. "Perhaps it comes from being raised in a merchant's        •'.
house, but I would have organized the empire in a manner
that built economic ties between regions and promoted
both economic and cultural growth. I would have permit-     ; -f
ted ethnic and social identities to remain distinct while sub-       |^
limating nationalism within pride for the empire. Strict       If
laws and swift, sure punishment for violations would guar-      ^
antee a lawful society that would, in turn, promote har-
mony and increased economic strength."

Once a Hero   317

"But once one part of your empire determined that its
economic best interest lay in another province or, worse
yet, the Elven Holdings, you would have a serious con-
flict."

"Not at all. We have ridden for half a day, and aside
from the croft we left this morning, we have seen no sign of
Human habitation."

"Aside from this road."

"True, and were 1 emperor, there would be many more
of them. They would be wide and well built because com-
merce demands swift and certain transport. Each province
would have market centers. Wirh land grants and tax
amnesties I could promote immigration to new areas of the
empire to create growth. I would have an army that would
keep the Haladina in their deserts and put down any inter-
nal conflicts. And had I been Neal, your people and I
would have had only one conflict."

Gena raised an eyebrow. "Yes?"

Berengar grinned despite a split lip. "The sylvanesti he
loved would have been my empress."

A thrill shot through her as she read more into his state-
ment than his words contained. She had always seen him as
attractive and flirtatious, but Durriken's presence, and then
his memory, had seemed to keep them apart. Their current
conditions and the attention they demanded had pushed
larger issues away and had created a bond between them
that could have easily slipped into more than mere friend-
ship.

Gena immediately began to poke and probe her own
feelings toward Berengar, subjecting them to intellectual
scrutiny in hopes of killing them. Merely considering her
attraction to Berengar seemed to be a betrayal of Durriken,
both on her part and by Berengar. She resented that intru-
sion on her, yet she knew that mourning a dead man for-
ever would only destroy her. She had seen that before and
resolved she would not fall into the trap.

Her attraction to Berengar did not wither away under
examinarion, but neither did it blossom into the all-con-
suming passion of vitamor. It remained a seed, not yet
sprouted, content in dormancy. Gena realized that their
current situation was too odd and strange to provide a

318   Michael A. StackpoU

solid foundation for a relationship, and she dared not risk
her friendship with Berengar by surrendering to his charms
in such an atypical setting.

She recovered herself and smiled carefully. "That would
have created quite a conflict with my people, my Lord. You
must recall that five centuries have passed since Neal and
the syivanesti were in love. While my culture now permits
what it denied them, it does not encourage it and barely
tolerates it."

Berengar nodded. "This I understand, though I can
dream of your Elders finding my arguments persuasive."

"Indeed, they might well have." She laughed and
winked at him. "But if you have dreams of being persua-
sive, I would focus them away from Elves at this point."

He frowned for a second, then let himself laugh. "And
upon what would you focus them?"

"Hardelwick, the emperor." Gena narrowed her eyes.
"After all, he must be convinced that you actually are who
you say you are, and to entrust Cleaveheart to you. They
way we look now, you will have to be more persuasive
than even Nea! could ever have dreamt of being."

Chapter 24

The Emperor
of Nightmares

I

x

Autumn
Reign of the Red Tiger Year 3 I

Imperium Year 1
Five Centuries Ago
My Thirty-seventh Year

I never felt so alone as when I rode from Cygestolia to the
first circus translatio. I had said all my good-byes at Wood-
spire and at the base of the tree had been given five horses
in addition to Blackstar. Three were laden with supplies,
and all had been outfitted with the same sort of silver
chains I wore. I was told by the groom who gave the horses
to me that they were meant as a gift to the Man-emperor in
Jarudin, but I knew that was a fiction that would make it
easy for Aarundel's family to deny ever having given me
any aid in my quest.

No one accompanied me to the grove. No soldiers
along the way showed themselves. Shijef, whom I expected
to wheedle and whine until I consented to his going with
me, stayed away. Riding out from the city inhabited by
virtually immortal beings, one of whom I loved with my
whole heart and soul, I felt incredibly small and insignifi-

320    Michael A. Stackpole

cant. That was how they saw me, and how the Reithrese
saw me, and part of me knew they were right.

But it is the small pebble deep down in a boot that can
hobble even the greatest of warriors. I smiled as my
brother's old defense to criticism about his size came to
mind. My success, if I was to have any, would come from
the fact that I would be in Jammaq before even the
Reithrese thought it possible, and even more so if they ac-
cepted the bait concerning my recall of the Steel Pack. If I
had any tuck at all, as a small pebble I would pass into
their nation unseen and remain unsuspected until far too
late for them to do anything about it.

The now-familiar wave of dizziness passed over me as I
entered the grove. I led the horses around so they strung
out one behind another; then I drew Cleaveheart. As I had
learned in traveling with Larissa, a torch was not needed to
activate the magick, just a touch and the repetition of an
Elven phrase: translatio mysterioso arcanum nunc. I started
before the tree that would send me south, then circled the
grove, touching all the other trees, save that one, with my
sword.

The torch used the first time I had traveled this way
had given off sparks, which had cycloned around inside
the grove to provide a wall through which I passed.
Cleaveheart did not produce sparks per se, but rang loudly
and clearly. The notes manifested themselves physically as
spheres of differing colors, multiplying with each blow.
The low notes, thick and blue, drifted toward the ground
while the sharper, high notes darted about as if they were
yellow and red hornets. Ail of them shivered the chains,
binding me and the horses to the magick.

As I rode around, the sound built as if ten, then a hun-
dred and a thousand swords, pealed in discord and unison.
On my third circuit I reined Blackstar around, then drove
him straight at the tree I had neglected. As I dashed for-
ward, the sound grew louder and louder until I could feel
the notes tremble through me. The spheres melded together
into a rainbow wall through which I burst at the point of
near deafness, and on into the network I rode with the
sound receding behind me.

The network dragged on me, and I wondered if my plan

Once a Hero   321

was doomed to fail- I knew Takrakor was not a fool. De-
spite the Steel Pack's recall, he would realize that it was
possible for me or a troop of Elves to head down to Jam-
maq on a rescue mission. While other Reithrese would be
negotiating with the leadership in Cygestolia, giving him a
gauge on how much of my suspicions the Elves believed, he
had to assume I might try something. He could discount
much Elven participation since the only Elf likely to insti-
gate trouble in conjunction with me was his prisoner, but
as the raid had already proved, Takrakor was nothing if
not calculating.

The network had three groves between Cygestotia and
Reith. At three days of rest to one day or travel, that put
any rescue attempt at a minimum of a week and a half. A
longer time would be logical to expect, because the nearest
grove lay nearly 120 miles from Jammaq. If he assumed we
would take two weeks to get to Jammaq, he would not be
considered overconservative in his thinking.

This was the reason I had decided to push as hard as I
could. What I intended to do had been described as possi-
ble by Lomthelgar, suicidal by Thralan, and necessary by
all three of us. When I reached the next grove, I would get
off Blackstar, tie him to the end of the string, and mount
the next horse. I would repeat that process a second time at
the grove after that, and wind up in Reith in less than a
day. From there, if I could do it, I would ride into Jammaq,
free Aarundel and Marta, and ride off with them. Our sup-
ply horses would double as mounts, which meant, if we
abused the network and ourselves, we could reach the edge
of the Elven Holdings before Takrakor would expect a res-
cue attempt being made.

At least that was how I hoped it would go. The distance
between Jammaq and the nearest grove did concern me,
but before I worried about escape, I wanted to have the
rescue completed. While I knew Takrakor was a cunning
and ruthless adversary, I also knew he was not omnipotent,
and I counted on that fact to guarantee our ability to flee.

Riding alone into enemy territory, even along a
magickal highway, is not generally considered a way to
earn a retirement pension. In thinking about what I wanted
to do, I realized that Takrakor was not as powerful as I first

322 Michael A. Stackpole

thought, and that Tashayul had been limited as well. Before
he had obtained Cleaveheart, Tashayul had controlled an
army, but not one large enough to let him secure his em-
pire. Until he had the sword in hand, resources had been
denied him. Once he had it, and had the prophecy reading
in his favor, support in Reith had been more forthcoming,
which was why he had been able to fulfill his destiny.

Internal politics in Reith, as with Elven politics in
Cygestolia, doubtlessly placed limits on what Takrakor
could do. In taking Aarundel and Marta, the Reithrese sor-
cerer had made a bold bid for power that could just as
easily doom him if it came to naught. If it won him
Cleaveheart, he could find as much support for his imperial
ambitions as had his brother. If his bid failed, the political
powers in Reith could disown him and kill him or turn him
over to the Elves for justice.

I was betting my life on the idea that Takrakor had
acted without sanction or knowledge of most or all politi-
cians in Reith. I knew he had at least two dozen individuals
with him when he staged the raid that took his captives,
and I could not imagine him handling many more than
twice that number if he wanted to keep the operation a
secret. As Jammaq remained abandoned for most of the
year, it made a logical hiding place for the captives, and I
already knew Takrakor felt quite at home there. I also felt
certain he would be there because he would want to force
me to return the sword to the place from which I had ob-
tained it.

What everything boiled down to was this: I would face
fifty or so Reithrese, including at least one powerful sor-
cerer, in the city of the dead in my attempt to free my
friend and his wife. If I succeeded or failed, the most likely
result was that the Elves and Reithrese alike would insist
my mission had never existed and that things I said about
it, if I survived, were the ravings of a lunatic.

Such are the privileges of being a member of an Elder
race.

The first transfer worked well. I had dismounted before
the last packhorse came through. Though my limbs felt

Once a Hero   323




leaden, I untied Blackstar and attached him to the end of
the string, then hauled myself into the saddle of the second
horse. Not having earned more than a saddle on its first
run, it had not worked incredibly hard, though it looked
back walleyed at me when I gave it some spur. I applied
sword to tree again, and within two minutes we were into
the network.

The second leg dragged on more slowly than an old
drunken veteran's war stories. My sense of urgency con-
cerning the rescue had made it possible for me to switch
mounts, but having to sit still for what felt like eons eroded
my strength. My head kept bobbing down to my chest as I
dropped off to sleep. The shock of my chin hitting my chest
would bring me awake again, and I shook my head to clear
it, but I continued to get more mush-minded with each
passing second.

Seeing the third clearing all dark and swirling in the
white-for-black world through which I rode alarmed me
and burned away the fatigue enfolding me. Peering into the
depths of the inkstorm, I saw no one and nothing, but I
prepared for trouble nonetheless. Something was definitely
not right.

As we came through a tree on the north side of the
clearing and normal vision returned, I saw immediately
what had happened. A whirling cyclone of reds, browns,
blacks, and greys rioted about. For some reason I could not
fathom in my tired state, the grove was active, and as
nearly as I could determine, the outgoing tree was the one I
had intended to use.

I reined back immediately and brought my horse in be-
side the next horse in the string. Without touching the
ground, I switched mounts, then drove my new horse for-
ward into the correct tree- In an eye blink we were off
again as the warm, musty wall of earth-tone colors gave us
passage.

As I used my belt to tie myself to my saddle, I wondered
how the Elves had managed to hide a circus translatto ter-
minal grove in Reith. I did not remember seeing very many
trees on my first journey there. Most of those had been
single, wind-scoured, and twisted trees defiantly clinging to
rocks no self-respecting lichen would have called home. I

324    Michael A. Stackpole

tried to let my concern over this point alarm me enough to
make me alert, but my body could not muster enough en-
ergy to allow me to panic.

Before we got there, I fell asleep.

As much as charging into enemy territory alone is stu-
pid, arriving exhausted is even more so. Apparently, when I
arrived at the appropriate point, I functioned well enough
to unsaddle my horses, water them, and tear open a bag of
grain for them before I wandered off to collapse. I say
"apparently" because I have no conscious memory of do-
ing that, but when I awoke, I saw that it had been done.

Upon waking I also saw how and why the Elves had
been able to maintain a circus translatio terminal within
Reith itself. I awoke in a subterranean cavern of consider-
able size with a huge gash cut in the ceiling. Bright, cold
sunlight poured down through it and the raindrops drip-
ping from the edges misted enough for a rainbow to fill
part of the air above me. Below the gash, placed carefully
to take full advantage of the sunlight, was a grove of minia-
ture trees. I recognized all of them and for the barest of
seconds wondered if I had not been transformed into a
giant through my misadventure.

I realized quickly enough, of course, that the miniature
trees were the product of woodwifery. They had been
grown specially and probably maintained carefully to pro-
vide the link needed to give Elves access to the interior of
Reith. The cavern itself, with a pool collecting downhill
from the grove, provided water and the cover needed to
conceal at least a hundred warriors and their mounts.

I checked the horses and found all of them in good
health. Though I had no way of accurately judging the
time, I estimated that I'd slept for at least twelve hours,
maybe more, and decided I would wait until the sun went
down before moving on toward Jammaq. In the meantime
I put more food out for the horses and scouted out the
tunnel that led to the outside. Confident I could lead horses
through it in the dark, I returned to the cave and slept some
more.

The nicest thing I can say about the countryside in

Once a Hero   325

Reith is that it is as equally beautiful at night as it is in the
day. More so, actually, because at night there is enough
heat radiating from the broken, black rocks to fend off the
nightchill, whereas in the day it would have baked me.
Mile after depressing mile of pulverized landscape would
grind down anyone's resolve to continue, but nighttime se-
riously limited my circle of vision, so I was spared the bru-
tal tableau.

Reith did have a lot of caves. I had no trouble locating
sufficient housing for myself and my mounts. In one I
found bones and in another I found feathers, but aside
from those things, I saw nothing even approximating a sign
of life. Given my status in the country I thought that a
good thing.

Reith is a nation made of mountains and more moun-
tains, yet it is not like my homeland. The Roclaws are old
mountains; while Reith is a land still in the grip of volcanic
upheavals. At night I could see fire glowing in numerous
mountain-tops. The hiss of steam or the bubbling plop of
mud-flats filled the night with unsettling sounds. Sulphu-
rous fog choked me and made my eyes water from time to
time. It was such a foul place I had no difficulty seeing why
the Reithrese would want to win an empire that would
allow them to live elsewhere.

It took me three days to reach the outskirts of Jammaq.
I left my supplies and three horses in a cave outside the
city, then led Blackstar and two other horses with me into
the city itself. I fastened a set of silver chains to each saddle
so we could slip them on whenever we had a chance during
our ride away, even though I expected us to have at least
three days on the road before we reached the cavern—if we
reached it. I stabled the horses in one of the sidestreet man-
sions and headed out on foot for the last part of my jour-
ney.

I armed myself with Cleaveheart and Wasp, the latter
homed in the top of my right boot. I slung Aarundel's ax
across my back, with the head at my left hip. I had chosen
to wear studded leather armor for two reasons and did not
regret the choice. After the grueling ride I relished the rela-
tive lightness of that armor. More important though, ring
mail's incessant rustle, and the metallic ringing in my ears

326    Michael A. Stackpole

caused by a coif, would have made my stealthy advance
through the city of the dead impossible.

Autumn brought to Jammaq even more of a chill than it
had known on my last visit, but I did not mind. Back then,
in my youthful bravado and stupidity, I had come to beard
the Reithrese in their own den. I felt confident that all the
prophecies about me—both those others told and the ones
I wove myself into—would protect me. I could not have
failed to carry Cleaveheart away, so confident was I in my
immortality.

Now, well into the autumn of my life, I felt a kinship
with the city of the dead and comfortable in its sepulchral
chill. In each leering gargoyle I saw an enemy Pd ridden
down or slain with the sword I now bore. Having killed so
many people did not necessarily make me a citizen of Jam-
maq, hut it did confer on me visitor's privileges, and I
meant to abuse those very privileges before the sun came
up. A few more Reithrese would come to rest in Jammaq,
and the living would depart.

A cold breeze cut at my face right then, and I realized I
found a subtle strain within a great truth. As I had ex-
plained to Larissa, the gods were perverse. What I realized
as I stalked toward Takrakor was that Reithra was the
most perverse of all. She knew I was in the city and easily
could have warned those who waited for me, but by be-
traying them and allowing me to send them to her, she let
me feed her. That amounted to an act of worship toward
her, and the last thing I wanted to do was to be counted
among her acolytes.

Having placed my trust in the perversity of a perverse
goddess, I should not have been surprised to see what
awaited me at the mausoleum from which I had liberated
Cleaveheart. In the dozen and a half years since 1 last saw
it, a portico had been added to the building. Broad, circular
steps led up to a landing that allowed access to the rest of
the building. Four pillars carved in the shape of intertwined
Human and Elven zombies upheld a roof. The figures mak-
ing up the pillars were paired Man and Elf, male and fe-
male and tike-gendered, mocking Elven laws and decorum
with their crudity.

Once a Hero   327

The merlons on the roof itself made the edge appear to
be a huge jawbone, and it had been set with massive dia-
mond teeth, the value of which was incalculable. Standing
tall over the incisors in that jaw, Takrakor gestured, and all
around me torches flared to life on the surrounding build-
ings. "Welcome to Jammaq, Neal Elfward," he shouted as
light poured into the small courtyard before the mauso-
leum. "You have arrived far sooner than I expected. My
allies, whom I invited to witness your submission to me,
will be disappointed."

"I'd beg your pardon, Takrakor, but had I known you
had a ceremony planned in my honor, I would have been
more considerate."

"Considerate, yes, I believe that is how I often charac-
terize you." The Reithrese sorcerer bared his diamond
teeth in a soundless snarl. He regained control of himself
and shook his head. "You possess something I mean to
have."

I raised Cleaveheart into a guard. "Come here, I'll give
it to you."

"Droll, Neal, and pathetic." Takrakor reached down
out of my sight and dragged Marta to her feet by her hair.
She did not cry out, nor did she move to defend herself, m
the wavering light that poured through the teeth I could
not see her clearly, but the gauzy garment she wore re-
vealed a lot or flesh that appeared almost as pale and mush-
room-hued as that of the sorcerer who held her. "You
^ recognize Marta, of course."

I said nothing.

The sorcerer shifted his grip to the back of her neck,
then brought her face down to his. He kissed her savagely.
Her jaw shifted down as he forced his tongue into her
mouth, yet she did not push him away or struggle. I won-
dered at why she did not fight him or do something, and
then, when a pitiful, animalistic wail filled the courtyard, I
thought finally she had returned to her senses.

Then I realized the sound came not from her but from
the black door in the mausoleum. A tall, slender figure
marched and stumbled through it and across the portico to
the head of the stairs. He stood tall and quivering, while

328   Michael A. StackpoU

twenty feet above him Takrakor abused his wife. I saw
Aarundel tense and try to move from where his feet had
been rooted to the stone, but his efforts went unrewarded-

"Run, Neat. It is lost."

Aarundel's harsh plea barely made it past his clenched
teeth, but it brought a sharp laugh from the Reithrese sor-
cerer. He released Marta, and she remained standing be-
hind him, his spittle running down her chin. Takrakor
licked his lips, then smiled diamonds at me. "He wants you
to run because I have given him a choice. To save his wife,
he must slay you and give me your sword. To save Marta,
you must slay him and leave me Khiephnaft."

I shook my head. "No bargain. I want both of them,
alive, and away from here."

The Reithrese laughed loudly, but I could tell he forced
it. "Do you think that if you rescue them, the Elves will be
kindly disposed toward you?" He reached back and ca-
ressed Marta's breasts. "Do you think they will consent to
let you touch a sylvanesti the way I have? Is this what you
hope?"

"What I hope is that you've cleared up your affairs,
because it looks as though I'll be killing you to take my
friends back home."

"You jump ahead of yourself, Neal. If you do not kill
Aarundel, or he does not kill you, I will slay Lady Marta
here." He extended his left hand, and a dagger slid from his
sleeve into his grasp. "It will be quicker than she deserves,
but it will happen."

"Is this what you hope?" I mocked him.

"It is what I know and what I will cause to happen,
even if I die." His face darkened and his voice took on a
cutting edge. "I have already sent a message to certain of
my brethren in Reith telling them I have Khiephnaft. They
are coming here, now. Even if you were to kill me, there is
no way you would be able to get your friends out of Reith.
It is over, Neal Roclawzi."

"Strikes me those were the words I used in talking
about your brother dying in the Roclaws."

Takrakor snarled and flicked his right hand in my direc-
tion. As if a puppet on invisible strings, Aarundel leaped

Once a Hero   329

from the portico and charged at me. He wore Reithrese
ring mail, though his head remained bare. The barbed
Reithrese scimitar in his right hand whistled as he swung
it back and forth through the air. Hatred burned in
Aarundel's eyes, but his brows slanted back toward the
sides of his face as if he sought forgiveness for what the
sorcerer was forcing him to do.

I noticed something wrong with Aarundel, but his first
onrushing attack gave me no time to figure k out or to
exploit it. He brought the sword down in an overhand
blow. I parried high and normally would have swung
around wide to the right to get my body out of line with his
cut, but Takrakor's control took the edge off Aarundel's
speed. I pivoted quick and tight to the right in a move that
caught AarundePs hip on mine and sent him up and over in
a midair flip.

He crashed hard to the ground on his back. He hesi-
tated there for a second, giving me a chance to split his
skull from nose to crown, but I did not press my attack. I
let him roll over to his stomach and scramble to his feet
because that first pass had told me a number of things. If I
could sort them out, I might be able to avoid killing
Aarundel.

Aarundel was never a great swordsman—his weapon of
choice was the ax that I wore on my back. I was better than
he was at swordplay, and I had a magickal sword as well.
Cleaveheart had already notched his sword when I parried
him. I could easily do to him what Tashayul had done to
me in our fight, which would leave Aarundel unarmed and
vulnerable.

The Elf came at me again, but I parried his attack aside
and forswore a riposte. Whipping my blade up and around
in a grandiose slash, I rained three quick blows down at
Aarundel's head and shoulders. He managed to parry each
one easily enough, but each cut carved another piece from
his sword. Like a woodsman notching a tree before felling
it, I worked on Aarundel's sword with two other attacks,
then I moved in close, bound his blade, and pushed him
away.

What I knew about magicks could have filled a thimble

330    Michael A. Stackpole

and left room for an ocean, but I did remember that the
small stones taken from the towers in Jarudin had a link
between them and the towers from which they had been
removed—a link that made magick possible. Takrakor's
control over Aarundel meant he had to be linked to the Elf
in some way. If they had both worn a similar crown or
something else that bound their brains together in some
way, the source of the connection would have been obvi-
ous. As it was I could not see Takrakor well enough to
notice anything odd about him, but I spotted the difference
on Aarundel as we stood face-to-face before I pushed him
back.

Between his eyebrows, up against his forehead, I saw a
scab barely an inch long and a lump beneath Aarundel's
flesh at that point. I knew that had to be the focus of
Takrakor's link with my friend, and as the Elf came back in
toward me, 1 dropped my guard to invite a lunge.

The point of his blade shot in at my heart, but I twisted
to my left and raised my sword arm up and over his lunge.
As Aarundel overextended, my left fist arced out in a punch
to the right side of his head. That staggered him and he
began to fall sideways. I brought Cleaveheart down and
sheared through his blade, then hooked his heels with my
left foot, dumping him to the ground.

I pounced on him instantly and sat on his chest. I
trapped his arms with my knees, then pressed Cleaveheart's
pommel straight down on his forehead. The lump did not
shatter, but the flesh split anew, and a thin sliver of a dia-
mond tooth sat like an island in a welling pool of blood.
Smearing crimson across Aarundel's forehead, I brushed
the tooth fragment away and stood.

Takrakor stared down at me, furious. I shifted Cleave-
heart to my left hand and filled my right with Wasp as the
sorcerer started his turn toward Marta. I whipped my arm
forward, sending Wasp up and up toward him, but
Takrakor took no notice of my action. Intent on Marta, he
brought his dagger up, aiming it for her soft belly.

Wasp skipped off a toothy merlon and tugged at the
shoulder of Takrakor's cloak before bouncing off into the
tower's shadows behind him. The sorcerer looked back at

Once a Hero   331

me with disdain, his knife frozen for a heartbeat. "Know
that what happens now is what you have wrought."

"Neal, save her!"

"I can't!"

Looking up as I was, I saw it descending before
Takrakor had even the slightest inkling of his peril. Leaping
down from a perch higher up on the mausoleum tower,
Shijef new through the night and landed short of the gap
between Takrakor and Marta. The Dreel's left arm stabbed
forward and swept back. It caught Takrakor in the face
and battered the sorcerer back into the shadows. With his
right arm Shijef gathered Marta up, then the beast vaulted
the toothy balustrade and landed in the courtyard with the
grace and stealth of a cat.

I shrugged the ax off and tossed it to Aarundel as the
Dreel ran over to join us. "Set her down, Shijef,"

The Dree! did as I instructed. "One claw, Shijef, care-
fully." I pointed to the scab tine on Marta's forehead,
above and between her staring eyes. "Cut the lump out.
Easy, very easy."

The Dreel produced one razor claw and carefully re-
opened the wound. As with Aarundel, the skin split cleanly
. and revealed a piece of one of Takrakor's teeth. I was
about to order the Dreel to flick it away, but Marta blinked
and raised a hand up to pluck it from her brow. "Leave
this to me."

Had I been of a mind to argue with her about collecting
souvenirs, I would have demanded she discard it, but the
arrival of a half-dozen Reithrese warriors from within the
mausoleum demanded my attention. Clad in mail similar
to that which Aarundel wore, they bore swords and
bucklers. They looked tough, but were coming at us from a
direction in which we did not want to go.

"Shijef, I have an order for you. Will you obey it?"

"Obey always I do."

"You disobeyed me by following me here."

"Followed not, preceded." The Dreel smiled most hor-
ribly. "Obeyed I did."

The third grove being active with the colors of his fur
^suddenly made sense, as well as did his absence at my de-
^parture. It also explained how I managed to dismount and

332    Michael A. Stackpole

care for my horses upon my arrival in Jammaq without
remembering any of it. "Do you smell the horses?"

"I do."

"Get Marta to them, and Aarundel." I glanced at my
Elven companion. "Get going, I'll hold these clowns back."

Droplets of blood etched dark lines around the comers
of AarundePs mouth. "The Reithrese are more than just
your enemy. Shijef, get Marta away from here."

"Go, Shijef, now."

The Reithrese approached us almost casually, as if al-
ready confident of their victory. I brandished Cleaveheart.
"This is the sword that stole your empire. Are you brave
enough to take it away from me?"

Before any of them could answer, I darted forward.
Wrapping both hands around the hilt, I brought it across in
a waist-high slash at the nearest of them. My foe dropped
his buckler down to parry me, then screamed as Cleave-
heart sliced through the small, round shield and took the
lower half of his arm with it. His right arm had already
started to come up in a thrust at my chest, so I spun inside
his arm, brushed his attack aside with my right shoulder,
and shifted the grip on my blade. With my back to his
chest, I reversed Cleaveheart and thrust it back past my
right hip and through his abdomen.

Letting gravity and his fall pull the dead man off my
blade, I freed my right hand from Cleaveheart's hilt and
appropriated my victim's own blade. Continuing my spin,
albeit iate and slow, I came around and, with the borrowed
sword, swept aside a lunge at my midsection. I kicked for-
ward with my right foot, catching the swordsman in the
stomach. Breath exploded from him as he fell back. I split
his skull with an overhand blow from Cleaveheart.

His brains had barely spattered the cobblestones when
the third warrior came in quickly. He wanted to use his
speed to defeat me and feinted at me with the dagger in his
off hand. As I had with Aarundel's sword, I slashed
Cleaveheart through it, then down into the warrior's left
leg. He screamed as he went down, but caught himself on
his hands. That presented his neck for me perfectly, and I
did to him what I would have loved to have done to
Takrakor.

Once a Hero    333

My work done, I looked over at Aarundel. Two of his
foes lay in a pile, and most of the third in another, with
scattered bits between them. "Good work."

"And you."

I pointed to the dead Reithrese. "I assumed Takrakor
had two dozen when he killed the Lansorii. Where are the
rest of them?"

"I have no idea. I think some were sent as messengers,
but the rest should be patrolling the city to keep Takrakor's
enemies away."

I brought my sword up into a guard as I heard the
clatter of hooves on cobblestones. "Mounted. This will be
difficult."

"Anything to let Marta get away."

But Marta had not gotten away. With her bangs
brushed back from her bloody face, she rode the lead horse
into the courtyard, bringing Blackstar and the third horse
behind her. Shijef jumped down from a rooftop, squatted
on the cobblestones, and flicked dust and pebbles at the
dead Reithrese. Aarundel ran over to his wife and hugged
her around the waist, then mounted his horse.

I hauled myself up into Blackstar's saddle and patted
the beast on the neck. "I have horses off to the north."

Shijef sniffed the air in the direction. "Lifeblack pools."

"We may have to chance it. North is where we can
reach the circus translatio."

The Dreel shook his head. "Lifeblack deeply pools." He
pointed toward the east and on around the compass. "And
there. And there and there and there."

Aarundel frowned. "Surrounded. Takrakor's allies
must have taken his announcement seriously."

I raised Cleaveheart in my right fist. "This sword is
mine, and a lot of lifeblack will pool before it's pried from
my hands."

Marta held her fist out. "Whoever is coming is very
anxious. I can feel through this bit of tooth that more than
one person is trying to magickally communicate with
Takrakor."

I looked over at the Dreel. "Did you kill him?"

Shijef looked crestfallen. "Broken, not dead."

334    Michael A. Stackpole

"Dammit." I looked around the city "There has to be a
way out of here."

The Dreel's race brightened, which normally is not a
good omen. "The Etven Way. Roadfast."

"We need the grove for that." I turned to Aarundel as
we all snapped ourselves into the chains we would need to
use the circus transiatio. "There's not a grove here in Jam-
maq?"

"In this necropolis? No."                           ^

"Use Roadfast, not grove."

I frowned at Shi)ef. "We can't use Roadfast without a
grove, and the nearest one is three days' hard ride from
here."

"We need to do something," Aarundel pointed to the
north. "I hear riders out that way."

The Dreei rose up to his full height. "Use Roadfast."

"We can't."

"Can."

"How?" I looked at Dreel as if by willpower alone I
could make him understand. "We need the magick of the
trees."

"Magick the trees have." Shi]ef pounded both paws
against his chest "Magick I am.'"

The Dreel started off at a dead run around us. He cir-
cled us once, and the colors in his fur began to blur. On the
second circuit he moved so fast that I had difficulty follow-
ing his movements, and on the third only the intensification
of the colors in the circle when he passed allowed me to see
him.

When he got back to the point where he started, he
stopped again instantly. His arms looped out to circle us
all, then pull us in toward him. Blackstar fought against his
touch, but I looked up and saw Reithrese riders pounding
down toward us from the north. I spurred Blackstar for-
ward, and he plunged on into the Dreel. The color wall
parted, and once more I found myself in the odd place the
Dreel named Roadfast.

As the familiar weariness began to pull at me again, I
looked back and saw Aarundel and Marta riding behind
me. Back beyond them I saw Sheet's shadowy form. Any
attempt at figuring out how he could possibly be moving

Once a Hero   335

with us on a pathway for which he was the entry point
threatened to overwhelm my senses. Facing forward again,
I contented myself with feeling safe for the moment and
smiled as I imagined Lanssa's expression when we ail ar-
rived, once again safe, in Cygestoha.

Chapter 25

Finding Your Place
In History

_x

Spring
A.R. 499
The Present

Despite the grey haze hanging over it and the ragged
sprawl of mud, wooden, and stone buildings surrounding
the walls, Genevera could see beauty in the Imperial capi-
tal. The bits and pieces of Rekhrese architecture yet visible
added an exotic touch to what clearly was a thoroughly
Man-wrought city. She knew there had been extensive re-
construction after the fire that took place around the time
of her birth, but natural weathering had taken the edges off
new buildings and gave them the same grimy patina that
marked even older constructions.

Berengar and Gena entered the city through the south-
ern gate and immediately headed toward the second circle
and the immense bazaar. There they managed to bargain
their way into far fancier clothing than any they had ob-
tained on the road—though none of it seemed to Gena
quite good enough for visiting the emperor. Closer to the
palace itself they took rooms at The Branded Hand and

Once a Hero   337

used the inn's bathing facilities to wash away the road
dust.

She would have preferred waiting until the next morn-
ing for making their attempt to see the emperor, but Beren-
gar's impatience warred with his solicitousness toward her,
making him edgier and less predictable than a wounded
bear. Dressed and perfumed, they hired an open carriage to
take them to the palace. The choice of action over patience
calmed Berengar, and he grew silent as the palace loomed
closer-

The central tower itself had not been damaged in the
fire, but reconstruction had allowed the emperor at the
time—Rudolf, the grandfather of the emperor from whom
Berengar's family claimed descent—to expand the Palace.
He added a series of rectangular buildings that surrounded
the original tower, though to what purpose Gena could not
imagine, because the Reithrese tower easily had more hab-
itable space in it than Woodspire or the Fisher mansion in
Aurdon. More curious, given the fact of the tower's size,
was the continuing construction on the buildings surround-
ing it-

The coachman let them off at the gate, then moved off a
short distance to wail. Gena took this as an ill omen, but
Berengar seemed barely to notice. As she adjusted her green
cloak and woolen head scarf, the count strode boldly to the
nearest of the soldiers standing at the gate. "I am Count
Berengar Fisher of Aurdon in the province-state of Centt-
sia. This is Lady Genevera of Cygestolia. We are come on
an important mission to speak with His Sovereign Majesty,
the emperor."

The soldier looked from Berengar to Gena and back.
He appeared unimpressed, but turned to walk back
through the gate. Berengar started to follow, but the man
held his left hand up to stop him, while dropping his right
hand to the hilt of his sword. The count stopped, his smile
dimming, while the man disappeared. He returned quickly
enough, leading an older man who stood not quite as tall
as Berengar, but was decidedly more stout than Gena's
companion.

The new arrival, a sergeant according to the armband
he wore, ignored Berengar and walked over to Gena. The

338    Michael A. Stackpole

scent of garlic reached her before he did, and with the
swipe of his gloved left hand, the sergeant removed the last
trace of his dinner from around his mouth. "Drop the
scarf, missy, let me see your ears."

"This is an outrage!" Berengar's shout came with
enough anger that in a bar it would have spawned a fight in
an instant.

The sergeant shook his head. "Best be having your boy
be quiet or we'll steel-leech him."

Berengar's eyes blazed, but Gena raised a hand. Sffe
removed the head scarf, then raked her hair back from her
left ear. "Is this sufficient, Sergeant, or do you wish to
touch it?" She twisted the ear sufficiently to have torn the
pointed top off had it been prosthetic. "I am one of the
sylvanesti."

"So your patience and help here confirm, my Lady."
The sergeant cocked his head toward Berengar. "And you
will vouch for the likes of him?"

"I will and do."

He turned toward Berengar. "Claimant or pretender?"

Berengar blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

The sergeant sighed. "Do you wear the tiger over your
crest or not?"

"I do."

"There we go." The sergeant waved both of them after
him. Once inside the gate the man led them past a small
guardhouse and pointed them to a doorway. "Go in there.
Find yourself and you will find the emperor."

Gena could see the tension rising to an explosion in
Berengar, but she bled some off as she touched him on the
arm. "Come, my Lord, let us see if we have a clue to the
puzzle we have been presented."

Berengar exhaled audibly but said nothing as he nod-
ded and followed her through the doorway. Beyond it they
found a small, relatively featureless room. They entered
through a door in the south wall. Doorways to the east and
west led back out of it. In the center, on a stone dais, stood
a scale mode! of the castle surrounding the tower. Twenty-
seven small golden circles marked different points on it,
and each circle had a number engraved on it.

Gena could not figure out what the numbers meant,

Once a Hero   339

though she did notice that they grew larger the further they
were located from the room in which they stood. She also
saw that only half of the new construction had been
marked with them. "This is quite curious."

"Hmmm," Berengar grunted. He had barely glanced at
the map and instead peered up along the walls near the
ceiling. "Look, the name of every emperor has been carved
into the wall, along with a number to designate his position
in our history. See, it begins with Beltran Primus and ends
with Hardelwick."

Gena looked up and saw the number twenty-seven
carved beneath Hardelwick's name. "I think I have an idea.
What was the name of the emperor from whom you claim
descent?"

"Aufrey. He is number twenty-four."

Gena looked down at the model of the castle. "Twenty-
four, here it is. We go east." Without explaining she
grabbed Berengar's hand and led him off through the east-
ern doorway. She fell him resist at first, then he moved
with her willingly. As they passed through numbered
chambers with doors to the north and south, they increased
their speed, but held back from running.

They stopped in the chamber with "24" carved in the
center of the floor. To the north, carved on the wall, they
saw the names of Aufrey's legitimate children, save that of
his eldest and heir, Caselmund. That name had been in-
scribed over the lintel leading into the next chamber. A
doorway stood open beneath each of the other three chil-
dren. The centermost opened into a chamber, while the
other two led to stairs.

To the south they saw four doors, and above the second
Berengar pointed toward a name, "Loreena, that is the
woman from whom my line descends."

The door beneath her name stood open. Gena also no-
ticed that of the four doors on that side of the room, only
one other had the name actually engraved m the wall. The
other two names had only been painted on the wall. Gena
suspected their impermanence had something to do with
the strength of the claim to the royal house, and could
easily mark the difference between descendants being able
to wear the tiger or nor.

340    Michael A. Stackpole

" 'Find yourself,' the guard told us." Gena waved Ber-
engar on toward the door.

Berengar preceded her, then led her around a sharp cor-
ner and up some stairs to a second floor. The both of them
had to stoop, since the ceiling rose to a height of only five
and a half feet. Along the walls she saw more names carved
above even lower doorways, and Berengar led her on
through one. Up more stairs, through another two rooms,
up one more flight, and Gena began to fathom how tim
twists and turns had been laid out. Primary heirs remained
on a level with their forebears, lesser kin and bastards went
up a level. In a couple of places she saw doorways that had
been bricked up, with names scraped from the rock.

A tight spiral staircase took them up into the smallest of
the chambers in which they had yet found themselves. A
lantern set on the floor illuminated Berengar's name and,
beside it, that of his dead brother. Squatting back away
from the lantern, a man in a cloak like puddled shadow
clapped bony, long-fingered hands. "Quicker than most."
He laughed, slightly sarcastically. "But not as fast as the
most hungry."

The man moved like a spider as he crouch-walked over
to where Berengar and Gena hunched with their spines
pressed to the ceiling. "You are Berengar Fisher and you
are Genevera of Woodspire, of Aarundel by Marta and
through Niali."

Gena made no attempt to hide her surprise. "You are
well informed. Majesty." She dropped to one knee and
bowed to the gangling man.

Berengar aped her. "This is an honor, Highness."

"I am certain I believe it is as well, Berengar."
Hardelwick dismissed Berengar without a second glance.
He settled back on his haunches and, resting his knobby
elbows on his knees, clasped his hands together. "I am so
glad you are here. There are many things I must ask you
and discuss with you. In the fire we lost records, which is
part of the reason we have this monument to our posterity
as an ongoing project. You should be able to bridge some
chasms in our knowledge." The long-faced man smiled
quickly, his dark eyes flashing with reflected lantern light.
"With your help, I believe I can salvage much of the

^                                  Once a Hero   341

empires early history, and especially details about Neal
Roclawzi."

"I would be happy to be of any service to you. High-
ness."

Berengar cleared his throat. "Imperial Majesty, we have
come to you on a mission that is most urgent and of the
utmost importance to Centisia and the empire itself."

"Yes, yes, 1 am certain of that, Berengar. Interesting
that you come to me ivith a mission as opposed to come
begging one. Quite a nuisance, that is, thinking up quests
for those who wish to etch in stone what we have only in
paint here." Hardelwick combed the few remaining strands
of his hair across his balding pate. "With Elves it is so hard
to tell, but I would not put you a day over two hundred
years. Is that right?"

Gena nodded, impressed with the man's guess. "I am a
little older than that, but 1 have spent a century studying
magicks, which has left me relatively isolated concerning
news of the world. I do know my history, though, and I
have a particular interest in Neal Roclawzi."

"Inspired by your grandfather?'*

"Grandaunt, really. My grandfather often spoke of his
friend, but there were some memories he chose not to
share."

"This grandaunt, she would have been Larissa,
AarundeFs sister?"

Gena nodded. "She was."

The emperor reached out and took Gena's hand. "You
will have to see one of the things that survived the fire. It is
a small painting made from the time when Beltran, the Red
Tiger, feted Neal, here in Jarudin, and your grandfather
and grandmother and grand-aunt were here. I am certain
the artwork does not do her justice—none of them in fact:

the emperor looks as if he has a potato for a nose when he
should look like Berengar here—but I know you will ap-
preciate it."

"I would like that very much, sire."

"My Liege, if you please." Berengar frowned and eased
himself down onto his other knee as well. "Our mission is
very urgent. Once we complete it, we can discuss history or
anything else you wish."

342    Michael A. Stackpole

The emperor casually brushed Berengar's statement
aside. "You of Aufrey's brood have always been impatient,
and it never does you any good. Impatience killed
Atholwin's sons and has him dabbling in the ways of
Reithra."

Berengar's jaw dropped. "You know of my uncle's foul
practices?"

"Know? Certainly. He tried to hide it, but not that
hard, because he wanted to brag about having information
I did not. He did have some useful things, of course, but
nothing I could not have found out without enslaving my-
self to a ferghun."

"You knew of that and did nothing?"

"Why should I do anything? Your uncle still had histor-
ical information to give me. Still does."

Gena shook her head. "Not anymore."

The emperor's eyebrow came up. "Dead?"

She nodded. "Fire. It started when he tried to murder

me.

"Oh, dear, oh, dear." The emperor shivered. "Nothing
salvaged, was there?"

"No, dammit, we almost died." Berengar's eyes hard-
ened. "How could you have let a threat to the safety of the
empire like my uncle exist? Reithra worship has been pro-
scribed since the birth of the empire! How could you ig-
nore your duty to the empire like that?"

The emperor sighed heavily. "Impatience, impatience.
When Bekran won the empire, and while his heirs sus-
tained it against threats internal and external, they required
direct control of everything. Since that time a bureaucracy
has built up and sustains itself. All that I am really required
to do is to sign taxation decrees and deny leave to warring
nobles to attack their neighbors. This I do, and do will-
ingly. My passion, however, is recovering the history we
have lost, for it is my duty to maintain our proud traditions
as completely and accurately as possible."

Berengar rubbed his hands over his face. "But you
should know how corrupt and broken down things have
gotten out there. We have Haladina raiding in Centisia."

"And you have the Aurdon Rangers to fight them."




Owe a Hero   343

"But we, the Fishers, pay for them when the Rangers
are maintaining imperial security."

The emperor shrugged. "Their budget is but a tenth of
the money your elders and the Riverens withhold from my
tax collectors. Oh, don't look so surprised, Berengar. You
knew they were underreporting trade and production, and
if you didn't, you're more stupid than even I would have
imagined."

He released Gena's hand and scuttled around to face
Berengar more fully. "I know wearing the tiger above your
crest has filled you with alt sorts of ideas about the empire
and imperial traditions, but it is the fabric of fantasy. If I
were to force your Elders to correctly report what they
have earned and send me my due, they would chafe be-
neath my rule. As it is, I have set tax rates at double and
triple what I need to sustain my army and other imperial
functions, because I know half to two-thirds of the money
collected in my name will never reach me. In turn, because
local nobles do not want imperial scrutiny, they handle all
but the most major of problems. I do not mean to disillu-
sion you, but the first emperor was, really and truly, the
last heroic emperor. Since his rime we have been little more
than accountants because the Empire has not required
more from us than that."

Berengar sat silently for a moment and Gena thought
him completely depressed. She recalled the enthusiasm with
which Berengar had outlined how he would have put the
empire together had he been Beltran, and she knew that
Hardelwick's apathy toward the empire's maintenance had
to be a shock.

The count shivered, then looked up at the emperor. "I
understand what you have said, at least on the surface, and
I am certain I will come to understand more as I think on
it. Which I shall do. However, that has no bearing upon
our mission. Consider my request as that of a minor noble
who does not wish to impose on His Imperial Majesty, but
has no other choice."

Hardelwick nodded wearily. "What is it you ask of
me?"

"I, we, have come here to request that you make avail-
able to us the sword and dagger Neal Roclawzi used five

344    Michael A. Stackpole

centuries ago." Berengar opened his hands. "Certainly you
know where they are, and we need them most seriously."

"A mission to find Cleaveheart and Wasp?" The em-
peror sounded almost surprised and definitely amused.
"Perhaps it is fated that you come here with that request,
for I have recently learned of the sword's resting place. Due
to Atholwin, actually."

"Yes? Yes? Can we have it?"

Hardelwick chuckled lightly as he shuffled toward the
stairway. "You're welcome at having a go at getting it, fcfct
I'm not certain there is a Man or Elf alive who can actually
lay hand to it."

"I can."

"So we will see, Berengar." The emperor patted Gena's
leg. "Come, my dear, follow me. You will enjoy this."

"Is there a specific reason for that. Highness?"

"Oh, I believe so." The man nodded as he perched on
the edge of the circular opening and extended his legs
down into it. "After all, magickal wards that have lasted
for five centuries are not common, and these were well
woven. You can take pride in Larissa's handiwork, and we
shall both be there to applaud if Count Berengar can defeat
the spells she laid down."

Chapter 2 6

Carving a Niche
in History

x

Autumn
Reign of the Red Tiger Year 3 /

Imperium Year 1
Five Centuries Ago
My Thirty-seventh Year

The Dreei's magick somehow superseded the nature of the
circus translatio network and brought us directly to the
grove outside Cygestolia, Upon arrival I did not feel nearly
as weary as I had in my outbound trip, but I was not, by
any measure, well rested and full of energy. We all man-
aged to dismount and lead our horses from the grove, but
before we left it, Aarundel used the blanket tied to his sad-
dle to cover his wife's near nakedness.

As she huddled beneath it, my friend turned to face me.
"We shall not speak of what Takrakor did to her, or the
state in which you saw her. There are those among my
people who would view that as an offense equal to your
having touched her, and they would erase your gallantry in
a foolish act meant to salvage the honor of the person you
almost died to save."

346    Michael A. StackfwU

I nodded. "I saw nothing, and I defeated you through a
subterfuge."

"You need not go chat far, my friend." Aarundef's eyes
grew distant. "When I first met you, back when you fought
Tashayul, I thought you brash and arrogant in the things
you said. You bragged about becoming a hero, and like a
hero, you did not back down when faced with Reithrese
and Elven scorn. I knew then that I had no desire to fight
you, ever, for you would defeat me. And I also knew you
would become the hero you prophesied yourself to be."

"Not without you at my side."

Shijef lifted Marta into his arms, and I took charge of
her horse in addition to Blackstar. Elven warriors slipped
from the surrounding woods as we approached the city,
but their challenges to us died as they realized who we
were. With Aarundel and Marta both having bloody
streaks on their faces, and me with a week's worth of grime
and a splattering of Reithrese blood on me, we looked a

suitable sight to have come back from the Reithrese city of
the dead.

Word spread quickly that we had returned to Cyges-
tolia. I fully expected the surprise I saw on many faces, but
I read fear on so many more of them. It did not appear to
be focused upon me—the fear, though the surprise came
fully in my direction—leaving me to wonder why the Elves
would find terror in the return of two people presumed
dead by the Consilliarii.

Lest I leave the impression that our homecoming was
met with sour looks and silence, I must note that it was not
at all. Everyone cheered once they were over their initial
shock. Aarundel quickly found himself unable to translate
all the questions and comments directed at us. Laughter,
catcalls, and applause followed us as we made our way
from the grove to Woodspire. There loyal family retainers

relieved us of our horses, and we were taken up to our
chambers.

Once there I washed quickly, then collapsed in my bed.
I had hoped to see Larissa before dropping off to sleep,
but I thought it best that I had not. Given the growing state
of euphoria in which I found myself—spawned because
snatching my friends from Takrakor's fair was quite a feat

;                                 Once a Hero   347

ai

^ —I might well have swept her up in my arms and have
(r given her a proper welcome.

'^:    As I found in my dreams, she'd feared throwing herself
^ at me, so she had stayed away as well. And forced herself
^\ to lie down to sleep so that we could be together in the
.T; heart of a city that wished to keep us apart.

I saw little of Thralan and Lomthelgar because the Con-
silliarii met in almost constant session from the time of our
return. I could only guess at the type of discussions that
kept them going so long, but after my last encounter with
them, I was not of a mind to go there and see if my conclu-
sions were correct. More important, I knew that their ideas
and their wishes would really not make a difference in
what I saw as the course for the rest of my life.

I spent a great deal of time away from most of the Elves
during the first week after our return. Aarundel had been
obsessed with the fact that Takrakor had taken both his
.and Marta's wedding tokens, and set about making new
aC ones. I accompanied him to the smithy and worked on a
| project of my own under his able tutelage. Neither of us
|'spoke much, but that didn't bother me. He was thinking of
|'his wife and their ordeal, and I was thinking of my future
; and the likely events to unfold in it.

i   I knew the Reithrese and the Elves might be able to
;:come to an accommodation concerning the kidnapping,
i but I also knew that I would never be able to escape retri-
[ bution for my part in the desecration of Jammaq. The
Reithrese could easily brand Takrakor a renegade and de-
liver his head on a stake to satisfy Elven sensibilities. My
problem lay in the fact that enough Elves viewed me with
„ the same disdain as the Reithrese. While I might be consid-
; ered inviolate while in Cygestolia, I would be fair game
I outside the Elven Holdings.

I could not spend the rest of my life in Cygestolia. I was

•-not one to cower in safety when faced with a threat. More-
i over, the Reithrese merely had to press the Red Tiger, and I

- would come out to oppose them. They knew that, I knew
that, and I felt certain most of the Elves knew that. With-

348    Michael A. Stockpile

out much trouble at all the Reithrese would be ajble to
dislodge me and destroy me with impunity.

Oddly enough, I did not find the idea of once again
fighting the Reithrese alt that disquieting. Even if the Elves
didn't see it, 1 knew the Reithrese would never be at peace.
Men had taken their empire away from them. We had de-
feated an Elder race. We laughed at their retreating troops,
and they had to rely on our good graces to escape. W&had
shamed them in a way that they could never allow to scand.
Just as a man would never abide a dog that tricked him and
stole food from his table, so the Reithrese would have to
punish their rebellious inferiors.

I had no doubt that the next ten or twenty years would
spell the end to Humanity or to the Reithrese. One way or
the other we would be wiped out, or they would all die off.
We could not live together. Perhaps the long Elven perspec-
tive could have allowed us to see a way to peaceful coexis-
tence, but Men did not have it, and the Reithrese did not
use it. The rebellion and overthrow of the empire had been
an overture to genocide.

just as I had felt a duty to go free Aarundel, so did I feel
a duty to be with my fellow Men to oppose the Reithrese. I
harbored no illusions about a long life sinking into glorious
old age. I had chosen to tread the Hero's Path, and my
journey was not yet at an end. Had I the freedom to marry
the woman I loved, perhaps I would have wished my jour-
ney had ended, but racing the consequences of my choice
would still not have been removed from me.

Of course, there always was the possibility that the
Consilliarii had been locked in battles over whether or not
they would grant me dispensation to marry Larissa, but I
doubted that sincerely. If they were to do that, they would
more tightly bind me to them, which would increase the
chances that they could be brought into the Man-Reithrese
conflict. More than likely, it occurred to me, they were
devoting themselves to figuring out how to punish me for
leaving three horses meant for the emperor in Jammaq.
Surely that was a crime for which someone could claim my
head.

After a week my work at the forge was finished, and at
the same time the Consilliarii summoned me to appear be-

Once a Hero   349

fore them. I agreed to go to them, but instead of dressing in
my finest clothes, I wore the leather armor that I had used
in Jammaq. I belted Cleaveheart on and left Wasp's empty
sheath tucked inside my right boot. Regardless of what
they were going to say to me, I intended to let them know
my thoughts and plans, and the reasons behind them.

Calarianne, the sylvanesti overseeing the Consilliarii,
did not hide her surprise when I came to the council armed
and in armor. "Welcome, Neal Roclawzi Elfward. I trust
you do not think you will be required to defend yourself
here."

"I do not, Doma Calarianne. I felt it fitting that I come
dressed for war because I know I will be leaving soon to
conduct a war." I bowed my head to her. "However, I
suspect you did not summon me to discuss my sartorial
preferences."

"You are quite correct in your supposition, Elfward."
She looked away from me toward one of the Consilliarii
standing before her. I recognized him as the first Elf to
oppose me when I said I was leaving on my rescue mission.
"We have brought you here, Elfward, to reward your brav-
ery."

The Consilliari bowed first to Caiarianne and then
more formally to me. "You are aware, Neal Roclawzi Elf-
ward, that the title Custos Sylvanii is one that we bestow
upon other races and peoples in whom we trust and whom
we admire. Aarundel of Woodspire, as was his right as an
Imperator, bestowed that title upon you and, at the same
time, petitioned this body to ratify his decision. His peti-
tion has been granted, making you the first Man ever to
earn that title. Henceforth you will be known among us as
Elfward, and any that would bear you malice because of
your Humanity or your birth in the Rociaws are enjoined
to set their animosity aside, or be forced to reside apart
from us."

Despite his obvious reservations, the Consilliari spoke
the words sincerely. I felt a lump rise in my throat, and that
surprised me. I had spent so much time expecting and liv-
ing with hostility from the Elves that having even this be-
grudged acknowledgment of my worth unbalanced me. A
smile came to my lips unbidden and I tried to kill it, but I

350    Michael A. Stackpole

failed because 1 found it mirrored on more Elven faces than
I ever would have dreamt possible.

Calarianne nodded her head- "Thank you, Vorrin Con-
silliari. Neal, it has come to our attention that in your re-
cent adventure you lost a dagger that had seen much
service with you. While we know we cannot replace it per
se, we offer you this inferior substitute, test it be said we do
not know how to show gratitude."                •

Marta stepped forward and walked across the flat of
the chamber toward me. On a satiny blue pillow she bore a
dagger that looked as closely as I remember to be Wasp's
size, shape, and design. Of course, Wasp had been rusty
steel with fittings of brass, while this had a blade of silver-
washed steel, a crossguard of gold, and a gold pommel
with a diamond set at the very end of it. As I reached for
the blade, I felt a slight tingle, and Marta nodded to me
almost imperceptibly.

Her voice came in a whisper. "The diamond is the one
you saw taken from my brow. I have worked a spell onto
the blade. I know there is nothing that will keep you and
Takrakor apart, so this magick will help bring you to-
gether."

"To my advantage I am certain." I netted the blade and
relished its improved balance over that of Wasp. "The bet-
ter for throwing."

Maria smiled. "The better for not missing."

"Thank you." I reversed the blade and tucked it into
my boot sheath. I bowed to Marta, then acknowledged all
the Consilliarii, "Now I no longer feel naked."

"This pleases us greatly, Elfward." Calarianne smiled
warmly at me. "As a Custos Sylvanii, Cygestolia is open to
you. Thralan Consilhari has said that your chambers in
Woodspire will be available to you whenever you need
them and for however long you require them. We would
like you to consider Cygestolia your home."

"That is a most gracious offer, but I cannot accept it." I
reached into a pouch on my swordbelt and pulled from it
the silver bracelet I had labored to create over the week.
"Cygestolia is the home of the Elves. I am not an Elf. I
cannot remain here.

"This bracelet is what I am." I ran my thumb across the

Once a Hero   351

runes I had scored into its surface: Man, Mountain, Sword,
Luck, and Friend. "Crudely made, just like me, and noth-
ing in comparison with Elven majesty. It defines me com-
pletely and even has errors made in its manufacture, which
lets you know I have a grasp on my worth and importance
in the world."

I let the bracelet dangle from the fingers of my scarred
hand. "Rather pitiful, I know, especially from your point
of view, but it serves its purpose well. And that purpose is
for it to remain here, so I will not be forgotten. When I
leave Cygestolia this time, I don't count on returning."

I took a deep breath, then continued- "The Reithrese
are out there. They will be looking to do to Men things so
horrid that the Eldsaga will pale by comparison. I don't say
that to inspire you to destroy Humanity before they do. I
want you to know that savagery in the name of racial supe-
riority is not your talent alone. I have seen the Reithrese at
practice, I have heard stories, and I saw what Takrakor did
to a party of your Lansorii. What comes will be lifeblack
delivered in oceans."

I looked around the room, trying to meet as many pairs
of eyes as I could. "You and the Dwarves and the Reithrese
are all Elder races, but I do not hate you because of it.
Hatred is too strong an emotion to be wasted on harmless
differences such as race.

"Malevolence, however, deserves hatred. The Reiihrese
are malevolent. So it is that I hate them. I know, even as I
stand here, they are preparing to destroy Humanity—if not
this year, then next, or ten years from now or a century
from now. They can and will destroy us because they
choose to hate us over simple things. Perhaps that is a good
definition of malevolence: hatred based on arbitrary and
benign differences."

I held my arms open. "You have seen Mankind in me.
Men have hopes and dreams, Just as you do. We have the
petty and cruel, as you do, but we also have the noble, the
kind, and the wise. We are not Elves, nor shall we ever be,
but that does not mean we should be butchered by the
Reithrese.

"My urgency, the urgency that sent me out to Jammaq,
tells me that there is no room or time for compromise with

352    Michael A. Stackpole

the Reithrese. After they subdue Men, their suspicions will
fall on you and the Dwarves. The Reithrese place'them-
selves in service to death. There is no living in harmony
with them. There can only be fearing when they will
strike."

I let my hands sink back down by my side. "I am going
to war. I am going to fight the Reithrese. When you judge
my actions, do not look at me as a madman, but remember
I am Custos Sylvanii. Do not ask why I choose to oppose
the Reithrese, but remember I act as a Man and as a friend
of the Sylvan Nation."

Lomthelgar stood out from the line of Elves near the
front of the room. "This is the Final Time! In his voice he
speaks for all others."

I did not understand the significance of the elder Elfs
comment, but its effect on the Consilliarii was what I
would have expected had he up and tossed a hornet's nest
into the center of the room. Angry shouts in Elven echoed
back and forth. Calarianne hammered her staff against the
chamber floor a half-dozen times, but that only cut the
volume of the discussion, not its virulence. Finally things
calmed down, and two Elves were chosen to speak on
whatever subject was at hand. The first went on at great
length and with incredible eloquence, though I didn't un-
derstand a word of it, whereas the second man pointed at
me, made a quick statement, and sat down again to a
round of applause from the gallery and most of the other
Consilliarii.

Calarianne polled the body and the side with the long-
winded speaker lost decisively. She made a pronounce-
ment, then looked over at me. "You are a curious man,
Neal Elfward. We offer you hard choices, and you accept
their burden without complaint. You offer us hard choices,
and we are forced to fight before we accept the burden. It is
maddening to many of us that centuries of discussion dis-
solve beneath your urgency and passion."

I wasn't certain how I should reply to that remark, so 1
said nothing.

"It is the decision of the Consilliarii that the Legion-
nairii Sylvanii will assemble and march on Reith for the
purpose of destroying the Death-lovers. As you have pro-


Once a Hero   353

tected and rescued us from them, we deem it our repay-
ment to you to end the scourge of the Reithrese for all
time."

I stood stunned for a moment; then I smiled and bowed
to the Elves. "I am honored at your choice. When do we
leave?"

Vorrin stood forward. "This is our battle now, Elfward.
Your part in this is finished. You will not go."

Lomthelgar opposed him. "Vorrin Consillian, Neal is
the Man who has spoken with Three Voices."

"Superstition. It does not apply."

Thralan shook his head. "If it did not apply, Vorrin,
why did it make you change your position from your ear-
lier votes on this subject?" He ignored the Elf's stammered
defense. "You understand the significance of this—all of
you do. This is the reason, the last sign. Because of him we
embark on the Second Great Crusade. You deny this be-
cause it marks a time of chrysalis and you do not wish to
face all that entails."

"He is a Man. This is a War of Elders."

"He is Custos Sylvanii and, therefore, not to be dis-
missed for his Humanity." Thralan pointed toward me.
"Neal wields Divisator. By his hand the snake will lose its
head."

Vorrin hesitated for a moment, then shook his head.
"We cannot chance Divisator falling into Reithrese posses-
sion. He could lose it."

"I'll tie a lanyard from my hilt to my wrist."

Lomthelgar clapped at my suggestion and a few other
Elves laughed. Vorrin became furious. "And if one of them
takes your arm? What then?"

I stared right back at him. "Then I place my trust for
the world and the future in the hands of the Elven Legions.
If each warrior fights only a tenth as well as Aarundel Im-
perator, a thousand swords tike Cleaveheart could not de-
lay the destruction of the Reithrese. Mark me, Vorrin
Consillian, auguries and prophecies, signs and fears be
damned. I will be there to destroy the Reithrese. The ques-
tion for you is this: will you wait here to be told later how
the day was won, or will you fight at my side and guaran-
tee victory?"

Chapter 2 7

False Goal
New Beginning

_x

Autumn
A.K. 499
The Present

Gena followed the emperor back through the generations
of Berengar's family to the main imperial line and then on
deeper to his own chambers. When they reached the corri-
dor with vaulted ceilings, Gena straightened up, as did Ber-
engar, but Hardelwick still hunched a bit. While older than
Berengar by a good bit, Gena did not think the Man SG old
that his skeleton had begun to deteriorate. She decided,
instead, that his hunch came from long years spent poring
over manuscripts or haunting the corridors of the stone
genealogy.

The emperor's own chambers confirmed her guess con-
cerning his stoop-shouldered posture. If not for the profu-
sion of two items she would have thought the room
belonged to a soldier who could only be comfortable in the
spare, spanan surroundings of a campaign tent. The bed,
wardrobe, desk, and most chairs were little more than
pieces of wood hastily cobbled together. Functionality su-

Once a Hero   355

perseded form, and the desk itself looked solid enough to
support the weight of the whole palace.

The two things that dominated the high-ceihnged room
were books and mirrors. Shelves had been built into every
wall, and bookcases started to form a labyrinth in two
corners. Every available surface, save but one chair and the
center of the desk, had books stacked on it, around it, or
above it. The sour scent of the straw in the mattress min-
gled with the more powerful, musky scent of a Man, mak-
ing Gena wonder if—absent the necessities of entertaining
visitors—the emperor ever left the room.

The mirrors hung all over the room, suspended from
the ceiling by slender cords. Other cords secured them one
to another, and anchored them to the shelves. None of
them were low enough to provide the emperor with a good
image of himself, though she suspected the man hardly
cared how he looked when or if he dressed for a special
occasion.

She also felt a spell woven into the room. The sensation
of the spell was maddeningly familiar, but it took a quick,
surreptitious casting of a diagnostic spell to tell her what it
was. When she got the answer to the mystery, she smiled
and blushed. "Of course, a fire-dampening spell. You do
not want to chance losing these books."

The emperor nodded distractedly. "Exactly. No fire in
this room."

"And the mirrors, they collect the light from the win-
dows and direct it to your desk."

"Yes, Genevera. I work from dawn to dusk, while there
is light." The emperor pulled himself up to his full height.
"These tomes contain all I have been able to reconstruct of
the empire's history. That shelf there, those half-dozen
books, those are all I have been able to collect about Neal.
I have some questions for you, if you don't mind. . . ."

"Highness, you were going to show us something?" An
edge crept into Berengar's voice. "Cleaveheart."

"Yes, yes, that's it." The emperor, hunched over once
again, waved them on through a door that led out into the
courtyard and the Reithrese tower. "I'd not have found it
again if your uncle's vague hints about Reithra worship
had not made me compare some accounts from the time of

356    Michael A. Stackpole

the empire's founding. Of course, the story of Neal having
destroyed the Emperor's Legion of Immortal Bodyguards
in battle right here is well-known, after which he killed the
emperor himself and crowned Beltran on these steps, but I
have always been suspect of it. An architect at the time,
Xerstan was his name, kept a diary concerning his projects,
especially the ones involving changes to the tower here. He
had copies made for his family and prospective clients,
which is how 1 happen to have his account, since toe origi-
nal was likely lost well before the fire."

The emperor led them up the steps to the doors of the
tower, but required Berengar's help in opening one suffi-
ciently wide to permit them entry. The darkness inside
threatened to stop them in the entryway, but Gena con-
jured a floating witchlight sphere that gave off a cold blue
light as it preceded them through the quiet halls. The place
felt quite dead to her, but grit grinding beneath her feet and
a profusion of shovels, picks, and axes leaning against the
walls made her think the tower saw a certain amount of
activity from time to time.

"Xerstan mentions meeting Neal and undertaking for
him, with the emperor's blessings, a special job. He refuses
to give any derails about that job, citing confidentiality and
honor. He notes, in another place, having helped Lady
Larissa of Woodspire complete a monument to Neal, but I
found no record of such a thing being created, or any sort
of public event being held to memorialize Neal—at least
none at which Lady Larissa was present. Xerstan, who was
something of a moralist, also devoted a number of pages to
the foul business of Reithra worship, and he took great
delight in pointing out the tricks and oddities built into the
Reithra chapels, one of which every good Reithrese main-
tains in his home for her worship."

The animation on the emperor's face as he spoke made
him seem more alive than ever before, even despite the
washed-out, bone-white pallor the witchlight poured into
his face. Berengar's impatience narrowed his eyes, and
Gena felt convinced he would have swatted the emperor
had the man not been leading them further into the dark
tower. Gena smiled at the emperor and found she was not

Once a Hero   357

forcing it at all, because she actually did find the man's
information fascinating.

"Xerstan said each chapel had a firehole. He notes this
was a circular pit anywhere from three to six feet in diame-
ter. Plain ones extended down for twice their diameter and
were kept burning by the family tossing wood, coal, rub-
bish, bones, and anything else that would bum down into
it. Some of the more sophisticated ones tapped into natural
gas vents to keep them burning, and more than one pit
actually led down into subterranean tunnels that could be
used for a variety of purposes."

Berengar could contain himself no longer. "How does
this pertain to Cleaveheart?"

"Always the impatient ones." The emperor stopped and
lilted his head to be eye to eye with Berengar. "It occurred
to me, Berengar, that Xerstan said every Reithrese dwelling
had such a chapel and such a firepit, but I had never seen
such in this tower. Xerstan reported that he had learned all
he knew about Reithrese chapels by destroying them,
which led me to believe that if there had been one in here,
he had destroyed it. I began poring over architectural
drawings of this tower and remeasuring everything, and I
found where the chapel used to be. Therein, I believe, I
have found Cleaveheart's resting place."

"You could have said that in the first place."

"Those who only want answers will never leam how to
find answers." The emperor yawned, covering his mouth
with the back of his left hand. "I have had men excavating
die chapel. Wizards I brought in said they felt two foci for
magick, so we dug to them first. I think you will find both
fascinating. Come."

The emperor held aside a huge tapestry, and Gena saw
an opening where bricks had been knocked out of the wall
in a haphazard pattern. She sent the witchlight in first, and
it revealed a tow, narrow tunnel shored up with stout tim-
bers. Gaps on the sides showed her that the architect had
used almost anything as fill for the chapel, including bro-
ken masonry, bones, dirt, and metal that had been reduced
to rusty streaks. Dust clung to everything, and Gena regret-
ted ever having changed out of her road clothes.

At the far end the tunnel opened out into an area that

358 Michael A. Stackpole

had been entirely cleared of debris and cleaned up substan-
tially. She could see details on the walls, and as she'sent the
witchlight upward, she got a shock when it revealed a face
looking back down at her. She kept the witchlight up there
until the emperor emerged from the tunnel. Berengar fol-
lowed him, rubbing at his forehead.

The emperor looked up. "That, I believe, is the face of
Tashayu!. He is carved up there, akin to a pate mold." The
man laughed lightly. "I believe this is the room in ^vhich
Neal killed the emperor, and I am certain the irony of hav-
ing Tashayul watch it all was not lost upon him."

Berengar folded his arms. "Why do you think the fight
was held here?"

Hardelwick shrugged and aped Berengar by folding his
arms. "As Lady Genevera has likely already noticed, there
are two sources of magick here. One is this sword, which is
the blade the last Reithrese emperor used to defend his
empire." The emperor toed the hilt and blade protruding
from the floor. "He failed to do so."

Berengar dropped to his haunches. "Nice blade."

Gena brought the witchlight down and smiled. As the
light circled the blade, the sword's shadow retreated before
it, as if the sword were a sundial in a world gone mad.
Berengar reached out toward the blade, but refrained from
touching it before either Gena or the emperor could warn
him away.

"Very nice blade. Depending upon the story, according
to my uncle, this sword became a dragon or screamed out a
death song or blazed with fire." The count dug his
thumbnail into the stone near the blade, and it flaked up
rather easily. "I would guess fire?'*

The emperor nodded his head. "Very good. I think it
was fire as well—that story predominates the tales, though
the dragon story is a better one, I think."

Gena summoned the witchlight over to the object, from
which she distinctly sensed powerful Elven magick. Six feet
in diameter, the circular piece of white marble had been set
flush into the basalt. Elven, Reithrese, and Human runes
spiraled out from the center to the edge. She reached down
to touch the words and feel them slide beneath her fingers,
but before she could do so, the stone shimmered, as if a

Once a Hero   359

reflection in a pond that had been disturbed by a rock be-
ing dropped into the center of it.

"What was that?"

Gena looked up at Berengar. "It is a simple ward, but I
suspect it is meant to keep casual and inexperienced sorcer-
ers from attempting to disturb the stone. The image we see
here, the one that rippled when I touched it, is a glamour,
an illusion. What we see is nothing like the surface of the
stone beneath it. Glamours are often woven into Elven
spells that are meant to last for a long time. It presents an
image that does not age and does not change, which is
suitable for a memorial."

The emperor knelt down and carefully moved his index
finger around above the spiraled runes. "I cannot read
Elven or Reithrese, of course, though I do recognize them.
The Man runes are an archaic form. I believe they come
from the Roclaws. The Roclawzi ambassador does not
have a linguist with him, but he has sent a request back to
the mountains to send one to me. I can make out some of
the message, but the fragments do not make much sense."

"The Elven is older, but I can still read it." Gena con-
centrated, canting her head this way and that to follow the
line of script, "Glory does not lie within. Merely a sword
ythat did win / An empire washed in blood. In the name of
the common good. Let he who puts hand to hilt. From
' sacred duty never wilt. An empire won will yet fall / If not
governed for the good of all."

"I had less than a third of that."

"Not great poetry."

Gena looked over at Berengar. "Less the fault of the
poet than my retranslation of something likely written in
Mantongue and translated over into Elven. I would say it is
rather common in terms of a burial warning."

"Yes, but how many burial sites are warded by Elven
magick?" The emperor smiled as he dipped his finger down
and the image rippled. "Quite potent, this magick."

Gena nodded. "I agree, which means it is keyed."

"Keyed?" Berengar frowned- "Is that different from us-
ing some sort of fuel to power the spell, as you explained to
me after the ambush?"

"Ambush?"

360    Michael A. Stackpole

"Haladina, Excellency, and the reason for our mis-
sion."

"Ah."

"To answer your question, Berengar, yes and no. If you
will recall, I described to you a spell that worked on arrows
to increase their speed and power."

"The one you used on the sand."

"On sand?" The emperor leaned in toward Gena. "Fas-
cinating."                                  |

"Yes. That spell was keyed to arrows after a fashion,
but it worked with the sand and could be made to work on
rocks or spears or any other sort of projectile weapon."
Gena pointed to the stone circle. "This spell, because it is
protective, is keyed magickally. It is, in essence, a lock that
requires a specific key or set of keys to unlock it."

"I need Cleaveheart. Can you unlock it?"

Gena thought for a moment, then nodded her head. "I
know I can, but doing it without the key will be all but
impossible. If Larissa cast this spell, and I feel enough of
her in it to make me think His Majesty was right in saying
she was the author of it, I should be able to learn what the
key is. With that I can break the spells and we wiU recover
the sword."

She shrugged. "Getting that information, however, is
not going to be easy."

Berengar stood. "No expense is too great. Lady
Genevera. You know that."

"It is not expense that worries me." She sighed as heart-
ache and anxiety washed over her. "It will be difficult, and
those who have the information may not want to give it to
me."

"I will convince them."

Gena almost laughed, "You are persuasive, my Lord,
but even the emperor could not guarantee our getting the
help we need."

"I don't understand." Berengar frowned. "Why will
this be so difficult?"

"To get the key we have to travel, my Lord." Gena
looked down and shivered. "To Cygestolia, where we will
have to convince those who knew Neal and his wishes to
betray his secrets to us."

Chapter 2 8

True Goal and
the End of Everything

Early Winter
Reign of the Red Tiger Year 3 /

Imperium Year 1
Five Centuries Ago
, My Thirty-seventh Year

'' The Elves began assembling their host immediately. Word
went out by means mundane and magickal telling the war-

- riors, archers, lancers, Imperators, and sorcerers to assem-
ble for the Reithrese campaign. Sparks constantly shot
from the forges of Cygestolia, making that section of the

' city glow as if the Reithrese were forcing a volcano up

1 through it.

I was informed that the assembly would take place near
the borders with Barangas and Kutchtan. It made sense

* from the strategic point of view because that would put us
^ closest to Reith while allowing us to remain in Elven lands.
[ We would march through Batangas, its vast plains making
| for swift travel and allowing our horses to feed on grasses,
f which meant we did not have to carry with us as much in
|tfae way of supplies. In addition, the Human population of

362    Michael A Stackpole

Batangas was largely nomadic and would be able to move
out of our way.

Use of the circus translatio to move troops had been
ruled out. There was no need for speed or stealth—the
Elves wanted to give the Reithrese every opportunity possi-
ble to gather together in defense of their nation, because
they wanted them all in one place. Besides, a genocidal war
is not something to be undertaken in haste. 1 did not doubt
we would prosecute the war, but I think all of us wanted a
long march in which to embrace the responsibility.

The host would proceed in three columns. The main
column, the one to which I would be attached, would go
directly in at Alatun and lay siege to the city. The other two
columns would guard our flanks and then sweep down to
seal the country and destroy all the Reithrese trying to flee.
None of the Reithrese would be allowed to live, a concept
that made my nights sleepless as I considered mothers and
babies falling under the sword.

While uncomfortable with that idea, I came to terms
with it on the Journey. My brother's plans for the Roclaws
looked at moving us away from a warrior tradition and
toward a more constructive and productive trading base,
but his choice to make the people of the Roclaws peaceful
and prosperous would not stop the Reithrese from destroy-
ing them. Any Reithrese left alive after this would have
such a hatred for Elves and Men that retribution, as justi-
fiable as it would seem, would become the core of their
lives. And while the survivors, were any permitted to sur-
vive, might be small in number, there was no way to under-
estimate the regenerative or reproductive powers of the

Reithrese.

My sleeplessness over this point isolated me from
Larissa. As Finndali's wife, she spent her waking hours
making preparations for him to go off to war. I did not
begrudge him her service, I envied it. For my part, I had
Shijef and Lomthelgar attending me, but neither of them
could offer me the comfort she could, though both did
prove distracting.

Finally, in the wee hours before we were scheduled to
ride from Cygestolia to the rendezvous point, my restless
peregrinations took me to the empty Consilliarii amphithe-

Once a Hero   363

atre and there I found her. The moonlight that snuck
through branches glowed from her face. She wore a gown
or silver, trimmed with lace at bodice and wrists, that left
her shoulders bare where her long golden hair did not hide
them.

Even when we danced, even in our dreams, I had never
seen her look so beautiful. She saw me, and the dour ex-
pression on her face lightened. It never reached full joy, but
her being able to change a grim frown into one of mild
concern made me smile, and that brought another degree
of relief to her face. Had I died right then, I do not think I
could have died happier.

I bowed to her. "I cannot tell you how happy it makes
me to see you this night." I looked out at the city in the
trees. "Everyone is consumed with family concerns tonight,
which is expected. Your family has been very kind to me,
but this is their night to be with Aarundel and Maita. I
would have thought you would be with your husband to-
night."

She glanced down. "I was."

I nodded, covering the pain that simple reply stabbed
' into my heart.

"I'm sorry, Neal, if that hurt you. I would spare you
hurt, but I want no secrets between us, no distrust."

I walked toward her. "I trust you completely, in that
which you tell me and that which you do not. Not needing
secrets between us does not mean they will not exist, by
intent or omission. I love you, so nothing you could do
;would hurt me." I laughed aloud and looked around at the
empty seats. "Can you imagine what would have happened
to me if the Consilliarii were here when I said that?"

"Could anything they chose to do be worse than the
choice they gave you three weeks ago?"

I shook my head- "It could not."

Larissa slowly began to circle me, and I turned to keep
facing her, but she held her hand up. "Stay still. I want to
remember you here, tall and strong, ready for battle."

"Should I be smiling, or do you wish the face I will give
the Reithrese?"

,ive

t   "You will always be smiling in my memory, Neal of the
IRoclaws."

364    Michael A. Stackpole

I fumbled with the pouch on my belt and removed the
bracelet I had created. "I made this for you, for it truly is
all that I am. It is not much—the same goes for me—but
the bracelet and I are all yours." I held it out to her.

She completed her circle and delicately took it from my
fingers. Two inches, one, separated us, yet remained a gulf
as wide as all the oceans. My heart pounded, and inside I
wanted to reach out to pull her into my arms. I wanted to
hold her so closely that I would never forget the press of
her body against mine. I wanted to smell the night air
through her hair and taste her lips on mine. As my gaze
met hers, I saw she wanted the same thing in that same
instant, yet both of us held back, restrained by laws created
in the very place where we stood alone and unwatched.

I released the bracelet and looked down. "I'm going to
die out there. You know that, don't you?"

"Don't say that. You could survive."

"Lies should not be our fantasies, Larissa. We both
know I will not be coming back here."

In silence she slipped the bracelet onto her right wrist,
then raised it to her bosom and held it there with her left
hand. "That is ... it is the nightmare with which I have
lived since the decision was made to go to war."

I swallowed hard. "I don't fear death, really. I resent it,
because it will take me away from you, but I know there is
no way I will survive this campaign. If no one else dies, I
will, because the Reithrese cannot let me live. And I am
willing to trade my life in order to make sure they are

destroyed."

"I resent it as well, Neal." She smiled sheepishly. "I
have fantasized about stealing away in the supply train that
will care for the army. I would be there to heal you when

you fall."

I looked down at my burned left hand. "And deny me
another scar to explain to your husband in twenty-nine
years? This is a collection of which I am not proud, and
had I felt your healing touch at the start of my career, a
collection I might never have allowed myself to assemble.
Now? I think the time for stubborn old fighters like me is

passing."

"And employing my art to save you would doom you."

Once a Hero   365

She nodded solemnly to me. "I would gladly accept exile,
but I will not be the instrument of your death."

"And I would not rest easy if I knew I had caused you
to be sent away from your people." I looked down.
"Though leaving you will tear my heart out, I cherish the
time we have had together, the dreams we have shared and
the Joy we have known."

She smiled. "I love you, Neal, and will forever."
"And I love you, Larissa, and will love you forever.'*
Wordlessly, but by mutual consent, we lay down there
on the floor of the council chamber, slept, and dreamed
together of forever.

The forest was alive with Elves as we gathered in the
morning to ride out. The Cygestolian contingent was to be
twenty percent of our force and Aarundel conservatively
^numbered it at twenty-five thousand individuals. Five Le-
gions, each breaking down into fifty companies with one
^hundred individuals in it, the Cygestolian force combined
^ two Lansorii legions, one each of light and heavy infantry
and the last a mix of archers, engineers, and sorcerers.
: Each company had its own bright banner, and the Elves
: gathered in hollows and on hills, in glens and in meadows,
• to say good-bye to their loved ones.

[   I sat ready to ride with Aarundel's company, in a legion
commanded by FinndaH, so I was honored to have Calari-
, anne, Thralan, Lomthelgar, and other important Elven offi-
iCials present to see us off. Most of the conversations took
place in Elven, but the tears and brave words carried their
meaning to me easily. I had been part of this sort of scene
; all my life, and this time I was reminded of the occasions I
; had ridden from the Roclaws in search of adventure.

"If I might intrude here for a moment," I announced
cautiously. I looked over at where Shijef squatted in deep
conversation with Lomthelgar. "I have something I would
;like to say, and I can think of no other group of witnesses I
^would rather have present."

|   Everyone quieted and looked at me. "Shijef, I have not
^been a perfect master, nor have you been a perfect slave.
|You have disobeyed me as often as I have given orders that

366    Michael A. Stackpole

should not have been obeyed. While desiring my death,
which would mean your freedom, you have ever kept me
safe. And in my most recent misadventure, you saved
Marta when I could not."

The Dreel stared up at me, his garnet eyes unblinking.
"Shijef, we embark on a war to forestall forever the
domination of one race over another. Inro such a war, for
such a cause, I will not take a slave. I free you noww any
and all obligation you have to me. Go, you're free."
Shijef dug at the earth with a claw, but said nothing.
I smiled at him. "Go, go on, get out of here. Go home."
The Dreel frowned. "No more my master are you?"
"I am not your master- Go home."
"If no more my master, why orders give me?"
Mild laughter rippled through our assembly. Aarundel,
frightening in his dark, sharp-cornered armor, pointed off
east toward the hills of Irtysh where I first met the Dreel.
"You may go away now. You are free."

"Free I am, free I have been." The monster pawed his
own chest. "Stupid I am not, you I understand. Understand
you me. I not the Reithrese love. What they would do to
Men, they do to Dreel will. Slave I have been, and ^lave no
more, ever. If Elves will have a Man in their army, a Dreel
they will have."

The Elves, along with me, were speechless.
Shijef tapped his chest, then walked over and pounded
my breastplate over my heart. "Have the same heart, we
do, you and I. Pledge, do I, to you what compelled was
before. My line and your line, friend and allies are, for all

time."

I reached up and held his paw to my chest. "We have
the same heart, you and I. I accept your service in return
for mine and that of my line."

The Dreel laughed, which made Blackstar shy; then
Shijef pulled away and sat down again with Lomthelgar. I
saw Aarundel's parents and Marta gathered near him, and
other families saying their farewells to their warriors. I felt
utterly alone and isolated for a second; then I heard her
voice and reined Blackstar around.

"Neal." Larissa smiled up at me. "I have something for
you. A gift for a girt."

Once a Hero   367

I noticed, as she extended her hands toward me, she
wore the bracelet I had given her. She held a braided circlet
of golden hair up to me. I pulled my gauntlet from my right
hand and leaned down. She slipped the circlet around my
wrist and, using the blue ribbon that had been woven into
the braid, knotted it in place.

I raised my hand and caught the scent of her from the
hair and the ribbon. "I thank you, my Lady. Its medicinal
properties are working already."

She raised an eyebrow at me. "Medicinal properties?"

"Clearly you have woven some of your healing Arts
into it, for it eases my heartache straight away." Reluc-
tantly I again shut my hand away in its prison of leather
and steel. "Just remember, we have had forever together."

Larissa nodded carefully, "If you come back to me, we
will have it again and again."

"It wouldn't be enough."

"No, but it would be superior to any alternative." She
took a step back and looked over at Finndali. "I should bid
him farewell."

I nodded and watched her go to him. As she walked
over to him, she began to move stiffly, and they seemed to
treat each other very formally. Yet, at the end of their con-
versation, he bent over—to kiss her, I suppose. I don't
know because I turned away and started to concentrate on
: the horrible realities of the coming war.

A thousand miles separated Cygestolia from Alatun,
and we crossed it at what could almost be described as a
leisurely pace. Elven foot soldiers, by virtue of their longer
i; legs, make better speed than their Human counterparts,
I .but even so we planned on taking two months to make the
^•journey. With every step closer to Retch we knew the
;; Reithrese were preparing for us, but that was as we in-
l' tended it to be.

Our ranks swelled when we reached the rendezvous in
; die southwestern bulge in the Elven Holdings. There our
^fighting force grew to over twenty-five legions, making it
tinore than triple the Man-force that had rebelled against
|the Reithrese. For every three individual soldiers, two other

368    Michael A. Stackpole

Elves came along with us as support. They handled every-
thing from the preparation of food and tending the* sick, to
sharpening our weapons and shoeing our horses.

After five weeks we had penetrated halfway into Batan-
gas. In that time I had learned a great deal of Elven and
Dreel—one of necessity, and the other so Shijef and I could
both stave off boredom when the Elves ignored us. About
that time Elven scouts came back and reported a mounted
Human force approaching from the northeast. They said
the warriors rode beneath a banner with a left-handed
glove and mountain rune on it. Finndali granted Aarundel
and me leave to ride out to the Human force, and we wel-
comed the Emperor's Own Steel Pack to our number.

Their arrival actually solved a problem I had caused for
Finndali and other Elven leaders. While they were bound
to have me with them, they had severe reservations about
having me in combat. Even the creation of a lanyard to
keep Cleaveheart with me did not seem to address their
concerns. When the Steel Pack arrived, they installed me at
its head and then designated my unit as reserve.

There was grumbling about that in the Pack, but it died
down as we drew closer to Reith. The weather turned cold,
but very little snow fell on the plains- Ahead of us, dead to
the south, we saw the mountains of Reith, but not well
because of the heavy clouds cloaking them- During the day
not being able to see our destination helped lower tension
by keeping it distant. At night, even a hundred miles away,
Reith became very close and very threatening.

In the dead of night bright, brilliant flashes of light
would transform the clouds into luminiferous beasts with
wispy tentacles just waiting to pluck us from our saddles.
Lightning, red and green and other colors unnatural and
unusual, shot through the sky. Distant thunder echoed and
rumbled toward us, turning Reith into a land where the
very stones seemed to be preparing to grind us down.

Aarundel reported that the light and noise, according to
Elven sorcerers, were meant to make it difficult to read the
truly powerful spells being woven by the Reithrese. When I
likened the show to the magical equivalent of gilded parade
armor, my men took to watching it as if it were a drama
being unfolded on a distant stage. Each night they wove a

Once a Hero   369

different folktale around what they saw and by the time we
had gotten near enough that thunder sounded close by
when lightning flashed, even the Elves seemed to have some
respect for the bravery my Men exhibited.

We entered Reith through a mountain defile that the
Reithrese should have defended. They stationed scouts in
and among the mist-haunted rocks and canyons, but they
never struck at us. I do not know if they felt we were not
vulnerable, or if some twisted sense of Reithrese honor de-
manded they allow us to assemble on the battlefield before
Alatun, but they missed an opportunity to slow us down
and hurt us. It was not until the final battle was joined that
I saw why they did not meet us there and, perhaps, why
they did not feel they needed to.

Though only fifty miles separated us from Alatun, the
.clouds prevented us from seeing it. We posted small forces
out in front of our host to warn us of any Reilhrese attack.
Those troops knew that if the Reithrese did press us, they
|; would die well before any help could reach them. The Elves
given those missions appeared to accept them without
question, and I gathered it was something of an honor by
the way Finndali rejected my offer to take a turn as we
|. moved forward through Reith.

For two days we advanced cautiously. Fog shrouded us
every inch of the way. Tinged with yellow and smelling of
rotten eggs, I decided it was not wholly natural, and the
testy nature of some Elven sorcerers told me I was not
wrong. The last night we camped not ten miles from
Alatun, but aside from thunder and a lurid red glow puls-
ing through the night, we had no way of telling where the
t: city was.

;   I looked up as Aarundel entered my tent. I held out two
letters for him. "I wouldn't want this battle to go any dif-
ferently from any other. You will see these are sent?"

"As always, though I trust you will take them back
from me and see to it yourself." Aarundel pulled up a camp
stool and seated himself. "I want you to know I have ar-
gued with Finndali to let your unit go with mine in the first
twave. I did all I could, but I could not convince him."

1;   I shrugged. "He could open a chicken and read in its
Iguts that my leading will make all the Reithrese fall down

370    Michael A. Stackpole

and die of laughter, and he'd not let me go first. He has his
reasons."                                      '

"I know. I just did not want you to believe J had rea-
sons why I did not want you along with me." He clasped
his hands together and looked down at them. "There have
been times, my friend, when words I have spoken have
betrayed what I feel in my heart for you. It is not easy to
shed centuries of thoughts and ideas. I know I hav^hurt
you in this, and I wish to apologize."

"No apology necessary, because there are times when
your words have told me exactly what was in your heart.
In Jammaq, when you told me to run and again when you
asked me to save Marta. In those two things I heard what
you truly believe." I reached out and grabbed him by the
back of his neck, then brought my forehead to rest against
his. "We are brothers beneath our skin. We're not perfect,
but brothers nonetheless, which means, I'm thinking, we
understand."

Aarundel smiled, then sat back, and my hand slipped
from his neck. "Then you will understand when I tell you
that upon our return, I will do ail that is possible to see to
it that you and my sister can finally be together." ^

I couldn't speak around the lump in my throat, so I just
nodded to him and smiled, all the while fingering the braid
circling my right wrist.

Morning came cold enough to make fog when I
breathed, and I thanked whichever god made woo! that I
had clothes to place between me and my armor. Over the
quilted jacket and breeches I wore full plate. It had been
made for me in Cygestolia, so bore the spikes and spurs the
Elves favor. In addition, the face mask I wore had been
fitted to me perfectly on the inside, but on the outside I
appeared to be a snarling wolf. I had smiled when I first
saw it, and even now it prompted a grin, because in this
brass-washed, steel suit I truly became the Dun Wolf.

The Elven host assembled along a front over a mile
wide. The battlefield sloped gently up toward Aiatun over
harsh ground. The earth, which had been baked by the
summer sun, developed a thin film of slippery red clay be-

Once a Hem   371

cause of the heavy fog. The plants that grew there were all
needles and spikes, though some sprouted yellow or white
blossoms. Big boulders dotted the battlefield. While insuffi-
cient to form a breastwork, around them the battles would
swirl and eddy, and in their shadow, bodies would pile up.

Elven pikemen held the center, with cavalry wings and
archers to back them up. Our supply train retreated, but
not too far. Had there been sun, it would have glinted from
a hundred thousand helmeted heads. As it was, the fog
ebbed and flowed, revealing and stealing away whole por-
tions of our line.

From the other side, out in the sea of fog, I heard a
trumpet blare. As if a theatre curtain, the white fog began
to lift, though in its wake rose up a bloody mist that
hugged the ground. As the fog began to dissipate, I saw
shadowy forms move through it. Without reference points
I could not determine their true size, but that mattered less
than trying to account for their odd shapes and strange
gaits.

Then quickly enough there arose from our side a buzz-
ing, as those who could see the Reithrese army communi-
cated with those to the rear. As far back as I was, I could
make out nothing of substance, and by the time I translated
what was being said, I could see it for myself-

What the Reithrese lacked in numbers they made up for
in incredible power. Creatures of every imaginable size
lurked among their ranks. I saw giant figures carved from
stone marching into place in the line among normal
Reithrese soldiers. A whole company of scimitar-wielding
cavalry skeletons brought their cadaverous mounts into
place behind a unit of Reithrese Dragoons. Hordes of
small, Man-like things nailed together from scrap wood
and animated by magick held spears at the ready.

These were the least of the forces arrayed against us- As
the fog burned away, I saw huge creatures with eight and
ten legs, built of bones, hundreds and thousands of bits
of ivory, bound together through magic. Hundreds of
Reithrese archers, not all of them living by the looks of
them, rode the spines of those behemoths. Similar but
smaller things made of scrap armor and weapons walked
upright like men, but were shaped like hedgehogs with

372    Michael A. Stackpole

swords and scythe blades forming their quills and claws.
Just one of those animated, metallic creatures wading into
an infantry formation would decimate it, at best costing the
Reithrese the life of the sorcerer riding in the thing's chest,
magickally commanding it.

Try as I might, I could not see Takrakor among the
forces arrayed against us. I knew he had to be there, and I
knew I would kill him, but locating him among fifty^hou-
sand or his countrymen would be no easy task. I would
have thought he would command one of the bone-mon-
sters, or a steel hedgehog, but discerning the identities of
the sorcerers manipulating them would have to wait until
the things had been destroyed.

Trumpets sounded loud and brassy amid the Elven
forces, and the infantry began a slow advance. All along
the line they moved as one. Green and gold pennants flew,
emblazoned with Elven slogans and runes. The pikemen in
the front lowered their pikes to accept any Reithrese
charges, but the other side's cavalry appeared disinclined to
engage the foot soldiers. Behind the infantry and flanking
it, the Elven cavalry moved up.

The Steel Pack remained in place, and Shijef stationed
himself twenty-five yards in front of us as if to fend off any
Reithrese assault that got through the Elven host. Despite
the nature of our opposition, I did not fear their winning
through to where we waited. What I did experience came
down more to a fear that treachery awaited the Elves and a
general feeling that I would not be able to save them.

A hundred yards separated the Elven infantry from the
wooden puppet men. Reithrese cavalry shifted restlessly,
bright banners twitching listlessly in the nearly breezeless
morning- The Elven pikemen pressed on, but their forma-
tion shifted subtly, with part of their central ranks holding
back in a tighter knot. The Reithrese guessed at what was
about to happen, and blaring trumpets sent horsemen for-
ward. Their skeletal allies galloped into the fray as well,
and the matchstick men lunged forward into the infantry
formation.

The wooden men did little damage, but managed to
weigh down the pikes used to keep live foes—especially
cavalry—at bay. From the left the Reithrese cavalry

Once a Hero   373

charged in at the infantry. Hoofbeats thundered across the
plains as red mud splashed like blood on the legs and bel-
lies of the horses. In counterpoint the voices of Elven Lan-
sorii raised in war cries dwarfed the Reithrese cacophony
as they countercharged.

The Reithrese horsemen hit the infantry on the left
flank. Their lead elements crushed the opposition and pen-
etrated a quarter of the way in toward the heart of the
formation. Horses screamed and reared up, blood flowing
from their mouths and nostrils as if they were figures in a
grisly fountain. Some pikes took them and their riders at
the same time, but most failed to strike anyone. Reithrese
riders pushed forward, urging their horses on as if stem-
ming a rising tide. Had the impetus and momentum carried
on, they might have gotten to the group of people they
sought and done serious damage.

They did not because the Elven countercharge hit the
cavalry wave on the flank and sheared it off. Elven Lan-
sorii, transformed into metallic demons in their inhuman
armor, sank into the Reithrese unit like a tent stake into
soft earth. The force of their charge deflected the Reithrese
effort, directing both Elves and Reithrese into the army of
kindling warriors. The bloodmist swirled, and in the thick
of it I saw Aarundel's ax clearing an arc in front of him.

The skeletal horde bore down on the Elven infantry.
The wind whistled eerily through their empty rib cages,
and their jaws bounced up and down as if they were shout-
ing as loudly as the Elves, but no lungs meant no war cries.
Instead the clitter-clack of their bones, barely heard as
more than an annoying buzz, announced them.

The knot of Elves at the core of the infantry started to
glow. A golden nimbus surrounded them and brightened,
^hen shot out a nova-flare- The fiery lance burned a swath
through the skeletons eight men wide and a hundred yards
deep, leaving two rows on each edge and two ranks in the
back untouched as the rest of the horde went from bone to
smoke in the blink of an eye. A second jet of magickal
energy—this one blue and unfolding into a blanket—
washed over what was left of the undead cavalry. As if
water, it eroded whatever held the skeletons together. Mo-

374    Michael A. Stackpole

mentum tore them apart and scattered the bones over the
battlefield,

As hedgehogs moved forward, and more sorcerers ad-
vanced with their bodyguards, dread began to rise in me. I
looked up at the battlefield and beyond it to Alatun itself.
Something told me the key to winning the battle lay
therein. I knew instantly that I could ride in there and win
the day. No more Elves would have to die. No^Slven
women would mourn lost kin and lovers. And the gratitude
the Elves would bestow upon me, it would be without end
and without restrictions.

All this came to me subtly, and I accepted it the way I
accepted as fact that the sun would rise the next day. I
drew Cleaveheart casually, as if I meant to inspect the
blade for nicks and cuts I knew I would not find on its
edge. I knew I could easily slip away from the Steel Pack
and ride around the Reithrese army to Alatun. Nothing
could keep me from getting there and fulfilling my destiny.
With Cleaveheart and the dagger Marta has given me, I
thought as I reached down for it, I will not be denied.

I felt a sting at the base of my skull when I touched the
dagger and wondered for a moment if she had not some-
how tricked me into carrying a weapon that would harm
me. Quickly enough, though, I sorted out the flash of be-
trayal I had sensed and realized that she had given me a gift
more precious than she had imagined. The dagger set with
Takrakor's tooth had just saved my life and that of the
army.

The spell she had placed on the dagger provided me
with an instant and intuitive knowledge of Takrakor's loca-
tion. It was not overly specific, but I knew he lurked in
Alatun, and I could feel him waiting there for me, I realized
that the thoughts I'd had about how I could win the battle
had come from his mind. Like a spider in a web, he had
used his magicks to lure me in. Had I not known, had the
tooth and the magick that bound it not told me where
Takrakor awaited me, I would have ridden into his trap
and handed Cleaveheart over to him without much of a
fight indeed.

But I did know, and that meant I could thwart him.

I raised my hand and nodded at my trumpeteer. He

Once a Hero   375

blew a call that brought my Men to life and directed their
attention to me. I pointed to the city, then gave Blackstar a
touch of my heels. "To Alatun and victory!"

"To Alatun and victory!" they shouted as they rode
after me. Shijef sprinted on ahead of us, harsh hissed laugh-
ter serenading us on our mad ride toward the Reithrese
dry.

As we swung out around the Elven lines, I knew what
Finndali and others must have been thinking. At first they
would curse me, for I was committing part of their reserves
in a mad romp of dubious value and questionable efficacy.
Our goal, as an army, was to destroy the Reithrese, not
take territory from them, so capturing the city meant noth-
ing. Its loss might blunt their morale, but how much can
the fighting ability of magickal automatons and stone war-
riors depend upon emotion?

Down on the battlefield the armies closed. Golden light-
ning met black shields as magicians vied with each other to
destroy and protect troops. Steel hedgehogs scratched and
clawed their way into Elven infantry units. Sleetstorms of
Elven arrows washed over the huge bone constructs, thin-
ning the ranks of the archers riding on their backs. Giants
of stone and ivory stumbled, charges faltered, and units
collapsed, yet always the forces pressed forward, throwing
reserve units in to replace those who had fallen.

"When we get to the city," I shouted at Fursey, "close
the gates and hold them against the Reithrese. Cut off their
retreat."

He nodded to me and we raced on. With each stride I
could feel myself getting closer and closer to Takrakor-
Each vibration pounding up through the saddle and into
me marked off the time before I would destroy him. His
magick grew stronger as I approached, coaxing me on-
ward, and Mana's magick centered me on him as if I were
an arrow that had been launched at a target. I would not
miss, I knew that, and I could not wait until my target and
I became one.

Before us the city's gates lay open as if she were a cara-
vanserai whore eager for our business. I turned in the sad-
dle, and through the mist roiling behind the Pack I saw one
of the behemoths begin to disintegrate beneath a withering

376    Michael A. Stackpole

Elven assault of verdant and blue magickal spears. Its skull
exploded as the sorcerous energy engulfed it, and I sa'v
what looked to be the burning body of a Reithrese magus
ejected from the conflagration.

The explosion echoed from the black walls of Alatun,
chased by a confusion of horns bleating out commands to
soldiers on both sides. Skittering across the low grty sky
like an aurora, a purple energy shroud originating from the
Elven side of the field played through the air between the
city and the Reithrese lines. It illuminated and caused to
glow numerous lines of power streaming out of the tower
central to Alatun itself. I saw those tines shift and the glow
vanish as the top of the gate eclipsed the tower and Black-
star pounded up to the city's entrance.

Off to my right the Dreel leaped from the ground and
scrambled nimbly up and over the soaring battlements
while my horse and I charged straight down the cobbled
expanse of the main street. Behind me a trumpet sounded,
reining the Steel Pack in so they could command the gate
while I raced on. I felt Takrakor's derision for their effort
drown beneath a wave of avaricious Joy as he caught sight
of me speeding toward the tower. Emotions twisted
through his brain too quickly for me to identify con-
sciously, but they made the hackles on the back of my neck
rise as I rode up to the base of the black tower at the city's
hub.

Cleaveheart in my right hand and the dagger in my left,
I vaulted from Blackstar's back and ran as fast as I could
up the steps to the open doorway- The tower itself, though
weathered and decorated in an archaic and chaotic style,
reminded me of the Imperial Tower in Jarudin. I knew im-
mediately the newer tower had been modeled on this one.
Likewise would Takrakor model his fight against me on the
emperor's defense of his title. Not that the sorcerer would
fight me with a sword, but he would turn the site of my
greatest victory into the place that would host my greatest
defeat.

I sprinted directly toward where the chapel was in the
Imperial Tower, and I saw the flash of a rainbow cloak
lapping at the doorjamb as Takrakor headed in there be-
fore me. 1 reached the threshold unopposed and at first

Once a Hero   377

- glance was struck by the nearly identical structure of the
chapel here and the one in Jarudin. From femur columns to
firepit and braziers, the rooms looked to be twins of each
other. Then I looked up and saw the only difference be-
tween them.

Takrakor, silhouetted against the flames of the firepit,
beckoned me forward. His diamond grin glinted in the
bloody red light from the braziers. "Come in. I have re-
modeled this place in honor of you."

Where his brother's intaglio had graced the ceiling of
the chapel in Jarudin, I saw my own likeness in this place-
It showed me torn and bleeding in a number of places.
Broken bones poked through naked flesh, and a huge por-
tion of my skull was missing. It looked as if I had been
drawn and quartered, then hacked and trampled. I had also
been emasculated.

My voice echoed from within the mask. "I'm thinking

; that if that's an honor, then I'd just as soon be killing you

; without any ceremony." I took a step toward him. "You

r want Cleaveheart, now you'll have it."

The sorcerer brought his hands back against his chest.
Suspended from a harness. Wasp lay in a sheath pressed
against the sorcerer's breastbone. Aside from a black kilt
edged with gold, leather sandals, and his rainbow cloak,
the Reithrese was naked and seemed almost powerless. His

• slender arms and skinny chest proved him to be no physical
threat to me, yet the moment he touched my old dagger, I
felt powers gathering around me.

"Oh, I will have it, but only after reality mirrors my
art." He raised his left hand and extended it forward, his

' fingers splayed. His body shook as if in the midst of a
convulsion, then his fist closed and I felt a titanic hand grip
me. It lifted me bodily into the air and held me as if I were
as weak as a new-whelped pup. My armor groaned and my
chest grew tight. Breathing deeply sent daggers through my
chest. Every muscle in my body spasmed, and my limbs
drew themselves in toward my torso.

Takrakor glanced upward, then shook his head. "Not
at alt a match." He brought his left hand down and

', touched it to Wasp, then used his right hand to pry his little

^finger out straight. As he did that, my left leg came down

378    Michael A. Stackpole

and almost touched the floor. Straightening his thumb
brought my other teg down, two fingers brought my &rms
out at my sides, and his middle finger brought my'head up.

He gently cuffed the edge of his right hand over the tip
of his left middle finger, and my head snapped back as if I
had been punched. My helmet flew off and my nysk fell
away, but I heard no clatter of their landing against the
floor. I tried to turn my head to see if they hovered behind
me, but I could not move at all. I hung there, crucified, my
ears still ringing from the magickal blow.

Takrakor held both hands out in front of him at arm's
length with palms facing each other. He kept them spread
apart as if they lay on either side of my chest, and when he
curled his fingers in as if making a fist, I felt his nails dig
into my back. I coughed in spite of myself, and he laughed,
then slowly pulled his hands further apart.

My Elf-made breastplate tore down the center and
spine as if cheap cloth. He continued to move his hands
sideways until a gap three fingers in width formed. My
pauldrons stopped progress at my shoulders, so the sor-
cerer yanked down with his hands once, twice, three limes
until the leather straps snapped crisply and the armor fell

away.

Each tug ground my shoulders around in their sockets.
My body gave with the pulling, but his magick held my
arms in place. I felt things shift and heard things pop, then
pop again as my left shoulder noisily returned to its place
in the socket. I wanted to scream, but the pain in my chest
stopped me from drawing in enough of a breath to allow
me even a weak whimper.

He must have seen my jaw working, because the pres-
sure that kept me breathless eased. "Scream if you wish,
Neal-1 will hear your screams. I will delight in them, and I
see no reason to delay my gratification."

I coughed again. "Not a scream."

"You will."

I wanted to say something foolishly brave or tough, as
did all the heroes of song and legend when in such dire
straits, but I could think of nothing- I could not even mus-
ter a stoic air, which I am certain would have inflamed him
more than insolence. I had grossly underestimated his

Once a Hero    379

power and was paying heavily for my stupidity. Even so, I
had no intention of giving him satisfaction by admitting
that fact.

I could feel his puzzlement through the dagger in my
left hand, and I let it fortify me. Every minute he spent
changing me into the image hovering above me was one
more minute in which his powers were denied to the
Reithrese army.

Takrakor hooked his fingers over into claws, then raked
both his hands down. Finger-width rents appeared in the
armor on my legs, and it fell away in a curled, twisted
tangle. On the bracers and rerebraces he took more time.
hi them he cut a spiral that left them hanging like a ribbon
on my arms. He carefully tugged that ribbon off, letting the
metal uncoil across my flesh. Blood dripped from countless
cuts on my arms, and sweat burned into them.

With the wink of an eye he made my gauntlets disap-
pear, yet my weapons remained in my hands. Except for
my tattered boots, scraps of the gambeson and breeches I
had worn, and the circlet of Larissa's hair on my wrist, I
hung naked and gore-spattered before him. My stomach
pushed out toward him with each labored breath I took.

I looked up at him. "Why don't you take the blade and
be done with it?" I'd like to think I asked the question in
hopes of luring him in close where I could strike at him,
but I cannot say it was so. Held there and stripped so com-
pletely while I remained impotent to stop him, I felt worn
and tired. I had told Larissa that I would not be coming
back, that I would die in this campaign- So this was it, and
I was willing to give up. I had been beaten by this Reithrese
sorcerer, and I knew my time was at hand.

"Take it?" He shook his head slowly. "No, no, no,
Neal Elfward, Neal of the Mountains, keeper of
Cleaveheart, Scourge of the Reithrese, Murderer of
Tashayul and Butcher ofJarudin, no. I will not take it. You
will give it to me. You will want to give it to me."

His thumb and little finger came in on his left hand, and
my knees immediately bent so I hovered in a kneeling posi-
tion. He nodded his head slightly, and magick slammed me
down against the floor. I felt my left ankle snap as it curled
, beneath me- The pain shot up along my leg, and I reached

380    Michael A. Stackpole

back with my left hand to touch the ankle; then a numb-
ness entered me at the base of my spine. In the same inctant
I realized that he had freed me from the grip of oneTnagick,
then had used another to render my legs lifeless.

"There, now you know what my brother felt for the
last bit of his life." Low laughter roiled from his throt, but
the snap and whispered roar of the fire in the pit behind
him swallowed it quickly enough. "I would have preferred
to hold you as before, but a greater magick requires me to
resort to a lesser one. And do be assured, though your legs
are numb and useless now, I will let them share in your
body's agony."

He stared down at me as he raised his hands. He folded
thumbs and fingers into fists, then brought his index fingers
out. He crossed them, middle knuckle against middle
knuckle, right over left. "You will find this very painful,
and the only way to end it is to offer me Cleaveheart." He
raised his hands toward his face and placed his crossed
fingers against his skull, where he had inserted the bit of
tooth on Marta and Aarundel. Then, facing me, he
whipped his fingers apart.                      ,

Pressure like a mule kick hammered me right below my
breastbone. It drove the air from my lungs, then the pain
started. I felt the panic of being unable to breathe, but the
blow forced me back enough that my chest stretched and I
involuntarily pulled some air in. As I leaned back con-
sciously, to breathe more deeply, lighminglike agony
stabbed through my chest and brought me forward again.

I looked down and saw a cruciform bruise forming be-
tween and below my breasts. The two lines barely an inch
in each direction, where they met marked the focus of the
pain. I hugged my hands to my chest, pulling my face back
so the blades would not slice me up, but touching the
bruise only increased the pain.

"It will hurt more if you rub it." Takrakor stared at me,
his voice strained with exertion. "Over the next twelve
hours, unless I stop it, that spell will slice you into four
parts." He rolled his eyes up to look toward the ceiling. "I
will ease the pain for you if you give me the sword."

Anger and fear and frustration came through the dag-
ger to me as he spoke. Despite the pain and my weariness, I

Once a Hero   381

found his conflicting emotions fascinating. How was it that
I was able to trouble him when he had me in so disadvan-
taged a situation? I could understand his wanting me to
endure the mental torture of surrendering the blade to him
—his treatment of Marta had displayed his cruel streak—
but he seemed to need me to submit to him.

His confusion and need sparked in me the one thing he
did not want. I thought I had detected a weakness in him,
and that gave me hope. That hope and my pain twisted
through bitterness into defiance. If I was going to be tor-
mented, so would he be, and I could do that by refusing
him over and over again until I died.

"I will never . . . surrender . . . this sword ... to
you." I forced myself to control my breathing.

"Bold words." He brought his right fist down like a
mace, and an invisible fist smashed me to the ground. Stars
exploded when my forehead hit the floor, and blood

„ started flowing from my nose. "You will take a long time

' to die, Neal."

I snorted, spraying blood down my chest. "And you
will never . . . ever ... get my sword."

Outrage spiked through the dagger, and Takrakor
flailed at me from across the room. I could no more keep
track of the blows than I couid move to avoid them, but
few hit solidly. After his flurry petered out, I felt as if I'd
been tossed around in the hold of a ship in the midst of a

' storm, but other than a twinge in a rib that got hit twice, I
wasn't that much worse off than I had been before.

Takrakor stood back and folded his arms to his chest to
consider me. In doing so he touched Wasp again, and I saw
him smile most cruelly. My physical pain grew, and a new,

^sinister influence started to creep into my mind. Whereas

; he had been subtle before, teasing out thoughts that I
wanted to believe, now he moved in to disrupt my thoughts
and weaken my resistance to him.

He keyed on my frustration and despair, and I felt a
smug superiority trickle in through the dagger I held. He
had briefly lost control, but when he regained it, he knew I
was a thing beneath him. He could compel me to give him
tthe sword, and that would not do for him. If he peeled my

'.mind like an onion, soon there would be nothing left to

382    Michael A Stackpole

defy him, and the second this course of action suggested
itself, he pounced on it. My frustration at being unable to
strike back at him became twisted, and he used it to slice
away options and plans as they came up, isolating me from

anything but submission to his will.

Takrakor stepped closer to me. Our proximity tjpth in-
creased the power of the link we had and heightened my
frustration. Having my arms free and not being able to hit
him when he was across the room was one thing. Remain-
ing impotent to strike as he crept closer and closer was
entirely another. With each step he ground my spirit away
beneath his feet, and I could do nothing but watch my life
leak away from the wounds he opened in my mind.

He used my frustration against me and slowly warped
every memory of past victories to which I clung. I used
them as armor for my sense of hope, and he peeled it away
layer by layer. My defeating his brother in our first fight
became nothing more than a fluke, something that would
never be repeated in a million years. The emperor had died
less by my effort than by his own foolishness because he
remained behind when the wisest of Reithrese had aban-
doned Jarudin.

Takrakor used his own special knowledge of events to

show me how hollow my life had been. I saw myself
through his eyes at Aarundel's wedding and felt his deri-
sion at my pitiful arrogance that day. With each step nearer
multiplying the strength of our link, he managed to decon-
struct my life, making each victory the calm before a
Reithrese storm that would destroy Mankind. Each
thought he changed, every remembrance he destroyed, cut
away at my ability to resist his will. While he did come
closer to torture me, I knew he would not close within
Cleaveheart's striking range.

Agony racked me as he hit my last line of defense. He
burrowed into all my memories of Larissa. He clutched at
them, pawed them, and soiled them. He showed me images
conjured from dreams where he substituted a rutting goat
for me, then let me live through each and every tableau
from Larissa's point of view. He turned everything all
around until he got to the point where he started to make
me believe she saw me as her perversion.

Once a Hero   383

I pressed my hands to my temples, and enough anger
flowed through me that my fists should have crushed the
hilts of my weapons. Takrakor, sensing victory, pushed
harder and harder. He rearranged things so I would think
that Larissa, seeing herself soiled and degraded, would kill
herself—already had killed herself in shame when I gave
her the bracelet over which I had labored.

That did it. Standing barely five feet from me, he
pushed one last time and broke through. He touched my
hope and I acted.

I smashed the hilt of the dagger into the floor, shatter-
ing the fragment of his tooth. Takrakor screamed in mortal
pain. Both hands shot to his Jaw as he reeled away in ag-
ony. He stumbled back and half fell, screaming anew as I
pushed off the floor and ground the little pieces of tooth
into dust.

Pins and needles shot through my legs and new pain
:slammed up through my left ankle as I lurched forward. I
f staggered as a man drunk and dying. Clenched against the

•pain, my teeth ground against each other. With the dia-
mond broken I no longer could feel his emotions, but the
expression on his face as he scrambled to his feet needed no
magic for translation. In his eyes I saw fear.
And the reflection of Cleaveheart.

'   1 whipped the blade across his chest with all the speed

r and strength my desperation could muster. I hit him solidly
and would have split him in half, but my blade caught on
Wasp. Takrakor spun away from me, more from the im-
pact than by his will. A scarlet froth and big bubbles
marked where I had cloven ribs and torn a lung. Blood
dripped from his mouth and nostrils and sprayed out in a

. spiral as he pirouetted around.

;    I stumbled to my knees and barely caught myself with
my hands. I saw his blood splattered across the floor and
heard the swish of his cloak as he fell back. I heard a muf-
fled thwump, then the scraping of metal on stone. As I
looked up again, I saw the last of his legs and the soles of
his sandals as his body slid down through the hole to the

- firepit. For a second the room went dark, then sparks rose
' Up. I watched them float toward my battered face on the

384    Michael A. Stackpole

ceiling, twisting around and flopping onto my back as I did

so.

The stone felt cold, but the btood on my Made and

chest burned. I raised my head enough to see that the
bruise on my chest had grown a half inch in all directions;

then I lay down. Looking up at the image Takraiipr had
fashioned of me, I reveled in the fact that though I knew I
was dying, I was not dying defeated. As black oblivion
swept over me, despite the pain, I managed a laugh that I
intended to ring in my ears through eternity.

Chapter 29

To Come Home Again

-X

Late Autumn
A.R. 499
The Present

With each mile closer to Cygestolia, Gena felt a sense of
urgency building in her. When she first felt it, barely a week
into the month-long journey, she dismissed it as spillover
from Berengar's nervousness. At his insistence they had
borrowed four horses from the emperor and money
enough to see them through the trip to Cygestolia and
back. Seeing Cleaveheart's resting place had focused Beren-
gar tightly on his goal of obtaining the blade, and she knew
his anxiety came from not knowing what was happening
back in Aurdon.

As the sensation grew in her, she managed to name it.
Homesickness. She had been gone from Cygestolia, wan-
dering the face of Skin-en, for a dozen years. For an Elf that
amount of time passed in an eye blink, yet she felt a grow-
ing hunger inside her again to see the groves and vales of
her homeland. Whereas before she returned, she would
have dismissed Cygestolia's importance to her, as she drew

386    Michael A. Stackpole

closer, she wondered seriously why she had left in the first
place.

Now, well inside the domain claimed by the Elves, she
wished she had the implements necessary to use the circus
translatio. She had not taken such things with her when she
rode away because she was uncertain she would ever want
to return. She slowly began to realize that her tint? among
Men had worn on her because she had constantly been
treated as a threat or a prize to be won. Never had she been
given time just to be herself, and Cygestolia became a sanc-
tuary where she could do just that.

No, not never. With Durriken I found sanctuary. She
nodded to herself as she remembered hours and hours
spent languorously entwined with her Human lover. When
they were together, he treated her with deference, but she
knew he would have acted so with any female, sylvanesti
or Human. Rik had a way of looking into people's hearts.
He pushed past what they appeared to be, or what they
were supposed fo be, and saw what they were. In his arms
Gena had been able to be herself, and, she realized, as long
as they had been together, she had not been looking for
sanctuary anywhere else.                     -

Berengar still remained solicitous and polite to her.
Small kindnesses such as complimenting her on meals
when it was her turn to cook or taking on more than his
share of the heavy lifting and carrying marked his concern
for her. Their conversations, after all the time they had
spent on the road together, had grown deeper and more
philosophical, yet somehow divorced of emotion. They
even spoke of what it would be like if they were to become
lovers or to actually marry, but that conversation seemed
concerned more with cultural customs and mores than the
attraction they felt to each other.

And there was an attraction. Gena blushed when she
thought about it, less from prudishness than from her feel-
ing that she was betraying Durriken in some way. She gave
Berengar chances to approach her, and clues that she
would be receptive to his advances, yet he did not act upon
them- She was interested in the way he watched her some-
times at night—Men generally being forgetful at how good
Elven sight is in the dark—but he held himself apart. She

Once a Hero   387

gathered it was from a sense of duty to his family—his
willingness to marry for an alliance as much as for love—
and she chose to respect that.

She also acknowledged that his focus upon their mis-
sion put her off at times. Durriken had been positively
Elven in his attitude about time: his sense of urgency had
not been driven by the passage of hours. Rik desired the
correction of past wrongs—as with the return of Marta
and Aarundel's wedding tokens to them—and was willing
to take the time needed to make sure his missions would
succeed.

In his single-mindedness concerning Cleaveheart, Ber-
engar exhibited what Elves found least desirable about
Men. Even so, she had no doubt he would be able to con-
trol himself when he reached Cygestolia. She smiled. Ber-
engar will charm everyone he meets. Still, some Elves might
balk at turning Cleaveheart over to a Man, and that was a
possibility that made it hard to predict how Berengar
would react in the long run.

Cygestolia had not much changed since she had been
away. The groves appeared to her eyes to be more stately
and grand than any Man-home she had seen. She felt a
sense of anxiety slip away as once again she saw the island
with the council tree on it. She smiled and pointed toward
that island.

"Do you see that stone structure there, at the base of
the tree?"

Berengar nodded. "Surely all the Elves in Cygestolia do
not live in that one small house."

"No," she laughed. "We live in the trees. You will stay
in my family's home, Woodspire- You will have the cham-
ber Neal used when he stayed here."

"Thank you. So what is that building?"

"That is Neal's tomb."

He sat up taller in his saddle and shaded his eyes with
his hands. "Yes? Could Cleaveheart be in there?"

Gena shook her head. "No. I have seen inside, and I
saw no weapons of any kind. We came here because my
grandfather and grandaunt made a journey from Cyges-
tolia after Neal's death. I believe that trip was made to
. secret Cleaveheart away."

388    Michael A. Stackpoie

"You said your grandaunt had gone 'beyond.' " Beren-
gar frowned. "You cannot do that and return with the in-
formation, can you?"

"No, but my grandfather still lives, and he might know
what the key to Larissa's spell is."

Gena led Berengar through the city to the Seven Pines
district and on to Woodspire, Elves took their horSK and
their baggage from them at the base of the tree; then they
entered the tubes and rose through the heart of Woodspire.
Wordlessly she guided Berengar through the tree and
smiled when she reached the chamber that had once been
home to Neal Elfward.

"Grandfather!" Gena ran across the room to where
Aarundel slowly rose from sitting on the edge of what had
been Neal's bed. It occurred to her that he had not been
moving so slowly when she went away, but by then she
was in his arms and reveling in his hug. "It has been far too
long."

"It has, Genevera." The old Elf stroked her hair. "You
are a tonic for an aged, one-eyed Elf."

She felt a tremor run through him. "What is it?"

"You have brought a guest."

She slowly released Aarundel, then turned and nodded
toward Berengar. "Grandfather, this is Count Berengar
Fisher of Aurdon in Centisia."

Aarundel nodded slowly. "You look the image of the
Red Tiger. Seeing you there, I half expect to see Neal him-
self come around the comer."

Berengar bowed respectfully, then smiled openly. "It is
an honor to meet you; Aarundel Consilliari. I have long
thrilled to the stories of your adventures with Neal. Your
granddaughter believes that you can help us with a prob-
lem that has brought us over two thousand miles."

Gena suppressed a frown because she would have pre-
ferred to ease into the discussion rather than deal with it so
quickly. She tried to hide from her grandfather her displea-
sure with Berengar, but he gave her hand a squeeze.

"Remember, my dear, I rode with Neal. I understand."
Aarundel waved Berengar to a chair and again eased him-
self down on the foot of the bed. "What is this problem?"

Gena, still holding her grandfather's hand, knelt at his

Once a Hem   389

feet. "Do you remember Aurium and the first night you
and Nea! arrived there?"

The wizened, white-haired Elf slowly smiled. "Neal
forced a peace on two families there. Riveravens were one
and the Fishers the other. Did that peace not last, my
lord?"

Berengar shook his head. "Not truly, Consilliari. Over
the years the oath Neal made has kept our two families
from destroying each other, but it is constantly tested. The
intervention of his ghost, so it is said, enforces what he
began five centuries ago. The Riverens—what you knew as
the Riveravens—have recently entered into an alliance with
the Haladina, and this threatens my family. We would
strike back, but Neal enjoins us from doing so."

Gena looked up at Aarundel. "Nea! said the two fami-
lies would be joined until Cleaveheart and Wasp severed
the knot he fashioned from the sleeves of two people. It is
time for the knot to be severed, so we are out to recover the
blades."

Aarundel shook his head. "Your effort is doomed to
failure. The blades cannot be recovered."

"But we saw where Cleaveheart is hidden." Berengar
frowned heavily. "Lady Genevera says she can undo the
magick if you will give her the key. It is vital you do so."

"My lord, were she to ask and I were able to accede to
her request, I would do so, but I cannot." Aarundel drew in
a deep breath and sighed wearily. "Before Neal left Jarudin
for the last time, he had made arrangements to hide
Cleaveheart away. He wanted the architect—Xer-some-
thing it was . . ."

"Xerstan," Berengar offered.

"Xerstan to create a vault that could only be keyed by
Wasp. A cast of Wasp was made for this purpose, and
Wasp was used to key the spell that Larissa created to ward
the vault." The Elf shook his head. "The cast was de-
stroyed after use."

"And what of Wasp?"

"It was lost to the Reithrese in Jammaq, though Neal
said Takrakor had it at Alatun."

Berengar shook his head. "Jammaq? Alatun?"

"Places destroyed centuries ago. You reckon the passing

390    Michael A. Stackpole

of the years from the date of their destruction. This is the
four hundred and ninety-ninth year since the annihilation
of the Reithrese. Wasp has not been seen since then, which
means there is no way to recover Cleaveheart."

"There must be another way." Berengar hammered his
right fist into his left palm. "If there is not, everything is

lost."

Aarundel shrugged. "Larissa, who cast the spell, is no
longer here. Breaking that spell is possible, but it would
take Gena here a century of specific and concentrated study
to be able to do so. I gather you have not the time to wait

for that."

"No. no I do not." Berengar growled and scowled. "I
can't believe Neal would have been so stupid to have keyed
Cleaveheart's hiding place with a simple, ordinary dagger
that could have been broken in a fight or during a meal."

"Perhaps it was not stupidity, my lord Count, but cau-
tion."                                        i

Gena stroked her grandfather's hand. "And perhaps he
had another way to get at the sword."

"That could be, Genevera, but I would not know. Only

Neal would."

Gena slowly stood. "This I realize, which means I have
little choice if I am to help Berengar save his family."
"I see no choices at all for my family's salvation."
Gena shook her head in Berengar's direction. "But
there is one, Berengar, and the one we shall use because
there is no other." She looked down into her grandfather's
eye. "Tomorrow I intend to open Neal's tomb and bring
him back from the dead."

x

Chapter 30

To Die Far from Home

_x

Autumn
Reign of the Red Tiger Year 3 I

Imperium Year 1
five Centuries Ago
My Last Year

. The jolt from the wagon's wheel hitting a rut stabbed a
fork of pain through my chest and brought me to con-
sciousness. I coughed, spreading the pain evenly through
me. I opened my eyes and wondered if I had gone blind;

then my eyes focused, and I saw stars and moons in the
heavens above. Either I was alive or the paradise promised
by Jistani prophets fell decidedly shy of ideal to my way of

; thinking.

"Neal, are you awake?"

I turned my head to the right and saw Aarundel sitting
hunched over with his back pressed against one side of
the open wagon. The edge of the blanket covering me
also covered his feet. He had raised his head above his
knees, and I saw a thick bandage wrapped around his
head. Blood had soaked through it, especially where it cov-
ered his right eye.

392    Michael A. Stackpole

"Awake, my friend." My tongue felt thick in my
mouth. "Water? Did we carry the day?"

"Healer, here, water." Aarundel snapped his fingers
and pointed at me.                              -

An Elf turned from another wounded Elf and knelt be-
tween Aarundel and me. He supported my head with one
hand and pressed the nipple of a wineskin between my lips.
I drank a little at first, bracing for the pain when I swal-
lowed; then I took more. Finally I nodded and the Elf took
it away.

Aarundel smiled wearily at me. "We were victorious.
After you closed the gates, their magickal support from the
city stopped. We crushed their army when their magick
allies fell apart. We found you in the chapel and a cabal of
dead Reithrese wizards higher up in the tower. I was told
they were torn up."

I coughed out a laugh despite the pain. "Shijef . . ."

"I've not seen him, but it was probably the Dreel."

I nodded. "He knew I could kill Takrakor."

"Did you?"

"Returned the favor he did me." I tried to pull the blan-
ket down so I could look at my chest, but my hands didn't
seem to work too well. "He used a spel! that will draw and
quarter me."

Aarundel rested a hand on the healer's shoulder. "Cle"
tine, can you counter it?"

The redheaded elf shrugged. "I know how to heal
wounds. Dispelling other magicks is not my forte. I could
try, but it might take me years of study before I would even
have a chance at succeeding."

"Fret not, friend Cletine." Another cough racked me.
"I'll not be having magick heal me up."

"This is different from before, Neal."

"It's not, Aarundel. The Reithrese are dead, so am I, If I
were to use magick now, well, it would be cheating,
wouldn't it?" I managed a smile for him. "Never before.
Not now."

"Even if it would allow you to see my sister one more

time?"

"Perhaps that would be worth it." I thought for a mo-
ment, then shook my head. "But I'm thinking I'm not

Once a Hero   393

dressed for courting. Besides, Cletine's healing art would
be better spent making you prettier for Marta."

Aarundel raised his right hand to cover his missing eye.
"No, this once I think I'll follow your example, my friend."

"You need not be stupid, Aarundel,"

He gave me a brave smile. "Not stupid, Neal. That eye
was my stupid eye, my blind eye. Without it I see many
things, many injustices that I have condoned by not oppos-
ing them. Next to my wife, I love you and my sister more
than anyone, and I kept you apart. Let's make a pact, Neal,
you and I. This time I forgo magick for healing and you use
it."

"I'd accept if I could, my friend, but I'm thinking I've
not got much longer." I coughed and convulsed, but kept
my scream trapped in my chest. "You have those letters?"

He patted his hand against his gambeson. "I can give
them back to you."

"Not this time." I looked up at the healer. "Cletine,
could I be troubling you for something to ease the pain?
Not magick, a draught or something?"

Cletine nodded and drew a leaf from a pouch on his
belt. He crushed it, and a faint scent like mint chased death
from my nostrils. He opened my mouth and laid the leaf
down in front of my lower teeth and let my lip hold it in
place. "Suck on that. It will help. You may sleep."

"Thank you." I turned my head toward Aarundel.
"You have Cleaveheart?"

He nodded-

"Good. I entrust it to you. Take it to Jarudin. Talk to
Xerstan. He knows what to do."

"Xerstan." Aarundel nodded at me. "You know you've
done more than destroy the Reithrese, don't you?"

"More?" I found it easier to smile as the pain in my
chest dulled. "I think ending the Reithrese threat is enough
for a Man, don't you?"

"A task worthy of a hero, Custos Sylvanii, and a task
acquitted by a hero."

"By many heroes, Aarundel, most all of them Elven."
My eyes began to want to close. "Thank you for being my
friend."

"The honor has been mine."

394    Michael A. Stackfwie

"It is an honor we share.'* I shut my eyes and sum-
moned an image of Larissa. "Tell her 1 died with her in my
mind and my heart."

"Rest peacefully, my friend."              , A , *
I felt him grip my shoulder and I tried to smile.1 don t
know if I succeeded, because along with the pain all other
sensations faded. I hoped I had, because I'd, rather have
him remember my smile than my death. He was a true
friend, and I owed him at least that much.

Chapter 31

For the Greater Good

Late Autumn
A.R. 499
The Present

With a swift rub of the polishing cloth, Genevera removed
the last bit of tarnish from the silver bracelet. She remem-
bered her grandaunt taking it from her own right wrist and
putting it onto Gena's wrist. "I make to you a gift of this
because you can bear the responsibilities that come with
it." She had not understood at the time, when Lanssa had
gone excedere, but now she wondered at her grandaunt's
prescience.

Gena turned toward Berengar. "What was that you
said?"

"I cannot believe you can do this—defeat death." His
spirit had been dampened by her proposed actions, and his
face remained a bit pale. "Neal has been dead for five cen-
turies."

She shook her head. "Neal has lain in a tomb for five
centuries. Death is a process that has some leeway in it."

"I don't understand."

"I'm not certain I do either, fully, but Lanssa, my

396    Michael A. Stackpole

grandaunt, used to provide me with examples while she
worked and taught me. If you go out and cut for me a
flower, is it alive or dead?"

"Dead, obviously."

"Yet if placed in water, the blossoms will ofen and
close normally." Gena smiled at him and slipped the brace-
let into her right wrist. "If you cut a shoot from a plant and
place its cut end in the ground, it will take root, yet many
would consider the shoot dead."

Berengar nodded. "All true, but plants are not Men."

"Yes, but Men do not die all at once either. You know,
for example, that hair and fingernails continue to grow
after death. You have seen cases where warriors who are
struck in the head still breathe for a time even though they

are dead."

"True, but none of them last five hundred years in that

state."

"None of them had Elven magick to help them sur-
vive." She pointed Berengar to the doorway leading out
onto the walkway that would take them to the council tree
and the island with Neal's tomb on it. "The healers with
the army, at least those being sent back with the wounded,
could not counteract the Reithrese magicks used to kill
Neal. Do you recall when I explained that magick dealt
with the manipulation of chance and time?"

"Yes."
"The healer attending to Neal wove a spell that slowed

the passage of time for Neal. He hoped that when Neal
arrived in Cygesioiia, someone would be able to reverse the

magick worked on him."

Berengar raked fingers back through wind-tousled red
hair. "So you are saying he is not really dead, just frozen in

time before he died."

Gena shook her head. "No, he actually is dead. He is
trapped in the midst of that process, anyway, and has not
been revived- No one could be certain that their spells
could counteract the Reithrese magick. Many sorcerers la-
bored for centuries to find a way to dispell the Reithrese
enchantments. They succeeded and turned the results of
their research over to my grandaunt. I am certain she
would have brought Neal back, but because there was a

Once a Hero   397

chance of failure, she did not want to take the risk of losing
him forever."

"She told you this?"

Gena frowned sharply. "No. She did not like talking
about Neat's death, but I was able to coax things out of
her, and that is the impression she gave me. She would
speak of him and his deeds, but never about the feelings
they shared. Even so, I know she loved him deeply." She
looked down at the stone tomb so far below. "Once a
month she would enter the tomb and she would look at
him. I think she wanted to take the chance to bring him
back, but she dared not be selfish."

Shrugging, she continued. "I am willing to take the
chance, because, if I do not, your family will die and Rik's
death will go unavenged."

They crossed the branch bridge in silence; then Gena
stopped when she saw her grandfather standing alone in
the middle of the Consilliarii chamber. On his right arm he
wore his insigne nuptialis—the one Rik had recovered—
and she knew he put it on only at times of importance and
ceremony. "Grandfather? Are you going to try to stop
me?"

The one-eyed Elf looked from her to Berengar and back
again. "If 1 did, you would ignore me."

"I would listen."

"I know you would, Genevera." He watched her
closely. "Are you prepared for this? It will not be easy."

"I know. I have studied Larissa's notes and I have
rested. I can and will succeed, grandfather."

"I am certain you will. Please, indulge me in one thing;

remember that for all the stories and legends, Neal is just a
Man. And he was once my friend." Aarundel folded his
arms, and Gena thought he meant his speech for Berengar
and not for her. "If he cannot solve your problem, it is not
his fault, but if he can, do not be amazed. I have learned
there was not much he considered impossible."

Berengar narrowed his eyes. "You approve of what we
are doing?"

"I will not gainsay you." Aarundel stepped aside, then
followed them as they passed through the chamber and
onto the staircase spiraling around the trunk of the tree.

398    Michael A. Stackpole

Walking down to the tomb, Gena remembered all the
previous pilgrimages to that site she had made with Larissa
—only realizing this time that she actually did consider
them pilgrimages. Her grandaunt had not spoken much
during the visits, yet afterward they would sit in the
shadow of the tomb, and she would entertain Gena's ques-
tions about Neal and his life.

It occurred to her that she had not visited the tomb
since the last time she and Larissa had done so together.
After that last trip Larissa had given her the bracelet and
told her that she was going beyond. When I asked why she
was going away, she just told me her work was done. Gena
felt a shiver run down her spine. She went beyond and I left

Cygestolia.

Each step down took her back in time to the previous

visits. She wore the same sort of white cotton gown Larissa
had demanded she wear on their visits, and she had gath-
ered her hair back into a thick braid as her grandaiint had
done. She imagined herself now taking her grandaunt's
place, and that idea both chilled and pleased her. Larissa
had always seemed more responsible than Gena had, so
accepting that responsibility made her happy, yet it also

inspired fear in her.

She rubbed at the bracelet and felt the Man-runes slide
beneath her fingers. She knew they defined Neal and that it
had been created by him, but its association with her
grandaunt made it so much more to her. The bracelet was a
piece of history, frozen in time, just as was the man who
had pounded it out of shapeless metal.

The small stone building loomed larger as she walked
across the grassy sward toward it. The grass felt cold on
her bare feet, and the earth vaguely moist. Everything
smelled very much alive around the stone monument to
death. The sunlight poured down upon her, yet its warmth
failed to reach her. A chill of doubt came to her as she
reached the stone-blocked doorway.

Will Neal want this? That question had not occurred to
her before, and it made her hesitate. Just as quickly as it
had come, an answer followed, and she smiled. Larissa's
tales had all stressed Neal's devotion to Mankind and to
protecting it. If he had been able to foresee the trouble his

Once a Hero    399

actions long ago would have wrought, he would have re-
frained from taking them. And if he was forced to act to
repair the damage, he would. Of this she had no doubt,
and she took the Aurdonian ghost stories as confirmation
of Neal's desires.

She turned from the rough-hewn, blocky granite build-
ing and faced the two males behind her- "Only I may enter
the tomb. Larissa cast spells in there that protect Neal, and
without this bracelet you could be hurt. You may watch
from the doorway—I always did—but be quiet. I am not
certain what I am going to find, and I will need to concen-
trate."

Aarundel nodded and stepped back a couple of paces.
"Count Berengar and I will wait here."

Berengar's expression told her that he did not like that
idea, but he withdrew to Aarundel's side. "Good luck."

She nodded and faced the tomb once again. The arched
doorway had been filled with a single slab of stone polished
until the surface reflected her face back at her. She forced a
smile, but butterflies flitted through her stomach. She felt
sweat rising on her upper lip, so she let her body shudder
once to burn off nervous energy; then she set herself for the
task at hand.

Gena looked up at the golden script carved into the
stone above the arch. "Neal Roclawzi/Custos Sylvanii. A
great hero and greater friend." As she spoke the words, she
felt the thrill of hearing stories from Larissa and her grand-
father race through her again. With what I am going to do,
I will add to the legend and become part of it.

She raised her right arm and pressed the bracelet
against the keystone of the arched doorway. The stone
blocking the door went from grey with flecks of black to a
milky white. It then faded through translucency to trans-
parency before evaporating altogether. She caught a musty,
dry scent from the tomb as warm air drifted out from the
stone enclosure.

She lingered a moment in the doorway, seeing Neal
again as she had seen him so many times before. Lying
there on a stone slab, his feet toward her and his head on a
stone pillow at the far end, he appeared to be sleeping, not
dead. She knew the clothes he wore had been enchanted so

400    Michael A. Stackpole

the yellow silk tunic and green silk breeches would not age
and decay, and she guessed that Larissa herself had sewn

them together.

Gena stepped across the threshold with the reverence
appropriate for entering into the presence of someone sa-
cred. As she walked around his feet to his left side—exactly
where Larissa had always stood—Neal's physical size im-
pressed her. Not only had he been tall, but very robust as
well. Scars crisscrossed the hands folded on his chest, with
the bum scar on the back of his left hand being predomi-
nant among them. His sharp cheekbones, straight nose,
and strong jaw gave him a look so vital, it mocked death.

She realized, as she looked down at him, that his chin
and his cheekbones reminded her of Rik. His hands,
though larger than Rik's were, had the same proportions.
His hair, though a shade lighter than Durriken's had been,
featured the same sort of ragtag utilitarian cut and length
favored by Men who were more worried about being able
to see than about being seen. Because of the resemblance
she found herself liking the Man lying there in front of her
even before life had returned to him.

Then she caught herself. Do I see Rik in him, or did I
see him in Rikf That question shook her to her core. Gena
wondered if, when Larissa went beyond, she had decided
her grandaunt had abandoned Neal. Had that prompted
her to go out into the world of Men to find her own Neal,
and had she done that in Rik? She recalled measuring Ber-
engar by her image of Neal, and she feared she had used
the same yardstick to measure Durriken.

She shivered. Enough time for that later. J need to fig-
ure out the spells here. With her entry into the room, she
knew she faced multiple sets of spells. The first came from
the clothes on Neal and, she suspected, a glamour that kept
the roses in his cheeks and the color in his hair- Larissa had
warned her about protective spells, and she could pick
some of them out from the background, but she could not
identify all of them clearly. She felt she would have had
more success trying to pick out individual instruments in
an orchestral recital in Jarudin than she would isolating
and identifying each spell.

That difficulty did not worry her because she knew the

Once a Hero   401

bracelet she wore functioned as a key to all those spells.
Larissa had woven her magick strong to protect Neal, but
in giving Gena the bracelet she had transferred mastery of
those spells over to her. Gena knew she would be operating
in a safe environment. She had reread all of her grand-
aunt's notes on what she had hoped would be a way to
save Neal from his death, and she felt certain she could
command all the spells she needed to do the job. Care and
caution would allow her to take things one step at a time
so she could do it right.

Gena rubbed her hands together and rolled her head
around to loosen her neck. She ignored the sweat dribbling
| down from her temples and started to control her breach-
: ing. "Right. First thing is to remove this glamour. Once I
see what I'm working with, I'll know which spell goes
when."

Magery had any number of ways to counteract spells.
Other spells could crush, dissolve, or slice through
magicks, but each of them required an expenditure of en-
i ergy greater than that used to cast the original spell. Gena
. chose to unweave the spell, and toward that end she used a
• small diagnostic spell that helped define the nature of the

glamour. Once she had done that, she had an idea how the
,: spell had been begun and completed, so she focused her
I, attention on the end point. By simply manipulating time
I and chance, she unmade the end point; then the whole spell
!- began to unravel.

As the glamour began to evaporate, Gena saw the true
Neal Roclawzi, and she recoiled from him. Blood covered
his paie, grey face—old, dried blood that had broken into
; tiny chips like a sun-dried mudflat. The silk clothes turned
I'into soiled rags stiff with blood and dirt that covered his
| loins and tittle else. Open, ulcerated wounds formed a cross
'on his chest running from throat to navel, flank to flank.
Multiple bruises covered him in purple, swollen bumps,
and she saw an odd lump where at least one rib appeared
to have been broken. His left ankle had swollen up to the
. size of a small melon, and his left foot canted in at an
: unnatural angle.

I'   Her mind began to reel as she saw Neal's battered and
|abused body. She felt as if she could not breathe, and she

402    Michael A. Stackpole

knew she was beginning to panic. She fought to regain
control of herself, but something in the tomb prevented her
from doing that- Struggle as she might against it, she could
not focus, yet through the fog in her mind she realized she
had triggered a massive magickal trap and she had no way
of counteracting it!

The spells that had lurked in the background swelled as
they drew energy from her panic. They used the bracelet as
their conduit. A red haze expanded from the corner of the
tomb and washed over the body like a dust-cloud. Where it
penetrated Neal's flesh, it liquefied the blood on him and
sucked it back down through his pores. Flesh that had ap-
peared bruised drained of color, and a pinkish flush
colored his skin.

Silvery daggers of microlightning descended from a
black cloud that coalesced from the tomb's shadows. Flick-
ing down and back like the feathery kisses of a serpent's
tongue, the lightning played over Neal's body. It lingered
over open wounds and centered itself on his chest. The
little forks all retreated into the cloud; then with a thunder-
ous humming a single solid argent spear stabbed down into
the cruciform wound at his navel. With the patience of a
caterpillar inching along a branch, the incandescent light-
bar worked its way up toward Neal's head. Flesh sizzled in
its wake, the greasy vapor rising up into the cloud, but the
flesh appeared seamless and unmarked as the smoke rose
from it.

The beam lingered over the cross's center point, filling
the room with a gout of sickly sweet smoke that made
Gena want to vomit. She coughed and the beam flickered
for a moment, then continued as she straightened up. It
split into three pieces, two running across the wound and
the last one up toward Neal's throat. The two flank beams
vanished as the third jumped from his throat up to his
nostrils. When it plunged in there, she saw light play be-
neath Neal's closed eyelids and shine out dimly through his
ear; then the cloud imploded and the light vanished, leav-
ing her momentarily blinded.

A wave of exhaustion rode over her, and a moment of
mental clarity followed in the trough. She knew she was
not as tired as she had been when she hastily cast the spell

Once a Hero   403

in the Haladin camp, but the two spells that had used her
had drained her significantly. Moreover, they drew suste-
nance from her panic and fear in violation of the Elven
dictum to keep emotion out of spells. The emotions made
the spells incredibly powerful, but also unpredictable, and
that frightened Gena horribly.

She tried to stop a third spell from vampinzing her, but
that took more of an effort than she could muster. Gena
did tenaciously cling to a small portion of vitality, bol-
stered in her efforts by knowing that if she lost it, the
magicks could wring her free of life and discard her like a
dry husk.

A blue-gray light bled up through the stone bier upon
which Neal lay and became so bright that all she could see
was his skeleton in silhouette. The light pulsed once, then
dimmed, and it appeared as if Neal's flesh had become
steel. The spot over his broken ribs suddenly glowed red,
and sparks shot from it as a metallic hammering echoed in
the tomb and shuddered through her. Likewise his left an-
kle glowed and sparked; then the light flared again and
Neai returned to normal, save his ankle and rib no longer
showed signs of injury.

Dizziness swept over Gena as the fourth spell started to
draw on her for power. Somehow she knew this was the
final spell, the one that would complete the task she had
come to perform. She had wanted to be the master of the
spelt, directing it and using it, but she found herself )ust a
component in it. Larissa had betrayed her, and the last
spell sucked up her outrage like a sponge.

Heat flashed over her body and she thought she might
faint- She fought the weakness, and the spell skimmed her
defiance off to feed itself. Gena knew she was being
manipulated, but every emotional response was anticipated
and harvested.

Suddenly she felt short of breath. She could not breathe,
her lungs lay useless and frozen in her chest. She felt her
body begin to burn in its need for air, then that sensation
vanished as well. She tried to puzzle together what was
happening to her because Lanssa's notes had said nothing
about this effect—had said nothing about any of this—and

404    Michael A. Stackpole

she began to wonder if all she had been taught by her
grandaunt had been nothing but bait for this trap.

Then she noticed Neal's chest had begun to rise and fall
on its own.

Gena hunched forward as her heart began to beat
wildly, then stopped altogether. When it started again, af-
ter only a second or two, her stomach convulsed. She felt
her guts shiver and internal organs quiver. Her hands
twitched, her toes curled inward. Every muscle in her body
Jerked and cramped and released. She thought at first that
the spell was stealing seconds of life from her to transfer
life into Neal's body, but she rejected that idea because the
differences in their species and genders would make the
transfer flawed and useless-
No, she decided, I am just being used as a road map so
the magick can show Neat's body what exists and how to
make it work.

Her head jerked back, exposing her throat, as she felt
the spell plunge up her spine and into her brain. It prowled
around in there, as Durriken might have prowled the curio
vaults of rich Kaudian antiquities collectors, examining her
memories. She saw everything flick across her mind's eye,
yet the spell only lingered over the stories and thoughts,
impressions and dreams she had experienced concerning
Neal. As if it were picking up all the fragments of a shat-
tered vase, it took every bit of him it could find and sent it
flowing into his brain.

Gena knew it was not to rebuild his mind, but to re-
mind him who he had been. If he were to live again, his
soul would have to be plucked from Reithra's grasp and
put back in his body. The stories, the memories, merely
made it easy for him to return. It made his body receptive
again.

The spell pushed against the last little reserve of energy
Gena held. She resisted, but it pressed her. Without words
it conveyed to her its need, not for something of Neal she
yet possessed, but for a reason for him to return. It had to
be potent and powerful, emotional and eternal. It could not
come without sacrifice. And it has to come from me.

Gena opened up and fed directly into it the love for
Neal she had seen in Larissa's eyes. Though her grandaunt

Once a Hero   405

had never spoken of her feelings for Neal, she never had 10.
Genevera had seen it from the beginning, and had never
seen it dim. She wondered for a moment how Larissa could
have prepared all this so lovingly, and then have walked
away from it without using it. No logical answer came to
her, so she funneled that mystery into the flow and fete
herself begin to faint.

Her head came down, and she stumbled back against
die wail of the tomb as the spell released her. She saw
NeaPs body convulse, and she cried out reflexively as his
head hit the stone pillow on the bier. A second later she
found herself slumping down in the comer, too tired to
stand, too exhausted even to try to fight gravity. As she
went down, she saw Neal's eyelids flutter, and even though
she feared she was dying, she knew he lived again. In that
realization she knew everything would be fine, and she sur-
rendered to the blackness stealing over her.

x

Chapter 32

The Minority
Does Suffer

_x

Late Autumn
A.R. 499
The Present
My S36th Year

Sharp pain ripped through my chest; then came a blackness
that I decided was death. Time did not flow, it grew stag-
nant. Shadow flashes of life, either dreams or visions, occa-
sionally settled on my consciousness the way a leaf floats
on a dead pond before slowly sinking to the bottom- They
settled down there to molder with the rest of me.

Brilliant searing lights and heat and tingling shook me.
The back of my head smacked something solid, but I felt
more surprise than I did pain. The aching that had chased
me through the darkness had eased. For the first time in
eternity I summoned up the strength to open my eyes, and I
found them responding to my command. As they opened, I
saw a figure in white falling away to the ground off to my
left.

I sat up enough to get my left elbow under me and took
a good look at her. The sunlight pouring through the
arched doorway showed me golden hair I could never for-

Once a Hero   407

get and glinted off a bracelet I recognized. That she sat
slumped in the comer with her chin touching her breast
alarmed me, but I saw no blood and knew that were I to
touch her, I could do more harm than good to the both
of us.

A huge man eclipsed the sun as he ducked his head
through the arched doorway. I recognized him more by his
size and shape than by the hint of copper in his hair, but I
couldn't imagine what he would be doing in Cygestolia. He
looked at where Larissa had fallen and shouted "Jenna!"
which was an oath I'd never heard the Red Tiger utter
before. I wondered if I was dreaming somehow; then I saw
him reach toward her, and I knew, dream or not, I had to
act.

Sitting up and spinning around on my rump, I got my
feet beneath me and launched myself at Beltran. "Don't
touch her. You can't touch her."

Beltran looked utterly surprised at the sound of my
voice. He folded around my shoulder. I heard a satisfying
ooofffas my tackle carried him back out of the smalt build-
ing and crashed the both of us to the greensward. I
bounced up off him and rolled through a somersault, but
as I spun to face him, dizziness washed over me. The world
swam before my eyes, and before I could focus them, a
heavy left hand clouted me over my right ear.

The ground hit me harder than the fist had, but not by
much. I rolled unsteadily to my feet and felt a hand grab-
bing my right shoulder. "Neal, hold. Berengar, stop."

I twisted around, pulling my shoulder from beneath the
old Elf's hand. "He almost touched her, doomed her."

"Neal, friend, he will not hurt her."

I frowned. "Do I know you? The only Elves I call friend
are Larissa and her brother, Aarundel. She is in there, and
her brother will kill Beltran if he touches her."

"In the old days I would have indeed done that."

I blinked my eyes and took a good long look at the Elf
standing before me. Long white hair draped over his shoul-
ders. He wore a black eye patch and stood as tall as my
best friend had, but his muscles had atrophied. His skin
had an almost transparent quality to it, as if he were more

408    Michael A. Stackpole

spirit than Qesh. "Aarundel? What did the Reithrese do to
you?"

Aarundel shook his head. "They took my eye, Custos
Sylvanii, but no more."

I frowned despite the pain growing at the base of my
skull. "But you look so old. Your grandfather, Lomthelgar,
he does not look so old. What happened?"

He shrugged- "I aged. Five centuries have passed since
you last saw me."

That cut my legs out from under me, and I sat down
hard. "Five hundred years? But ..." I glanced back at the
small stone blockhouse. "Your sister, she has not aged."

"She is my granddaughter, Neal, by my son Niall."
Aarundel crouched, then sat on the ground beside me.
"Many things have changed, my friend."

The man with whom I fought emerged from the block-
house with a sylvanestt in his arms. I waited for a volley of
Elven arrows to cut him down, but none came. I looked up
and knew I sat beneath the Consilliani tree and watched
this most grotesque violation of Elven law being perpe-
trated right here. Aarundel barely glanced at the Man
dooming his granddaughter to exile, and the Man seemed
more concerned for her than for his own fate.

"How can he be carrying her?"

"I can because I am strong and considerate, old man."
He lay her down in the shade and rubbed one of her wrists.
Ignoring me, he looked at Aarundel. "She is breathing and
has a pulse. She fainted from whatever went on in there."

I reached out and grabbed Aarundel's left arm. "What
has happened? Why is Beltran here? Wait—can he be Bel-
tran? Five centuries?" I closed my mouth as my mind be-
came a chaotic jumble of ideas and fears warring for
control of me.

Aarundel patted my hand with his right hand. "There
are many things I will explain to you, my friend, gladly. I
know this is abrupt and confusing." He pointed to the man
kneeling beside his granddaughter. "This is Count Beren-
gar Fisher of Aurdon in Centisia."

1 frowned. "Aurdon? I remember the Fishers of
Aunum. Are they related?"

Berengar looked up while his hands continued their




Once a Hero   409

massage of the sylvanestt's wrist. "They are the same,
Neal. What you knew as Aurium is now known as Aurdon.
It has grown and changed since you last saw it."

Five centuries! I stared down at the ground and picked
at the grass growing there. It felt the same to me as it had
when last I touched it. I plucked a piece and put it in my
mouth. It tasted and smelled the same. That was some-
thing, something normal, and I clung to it. If this was all a
dream, I would laugh in the morning and if not, I now
knew a new definition for nightmare.

Aarundel's arm bones felt as light and frail as a bird's
wing in my grasp. "Larissa?"

My friend shook his head. "She has gone beyond, Neal.
With Lomthelgar and my parents."

"Marta?"

"She waits here, with me."

The sylvanesti responded to Berengar's efforts to revive
her with a groan. She tried to sit up but would have failed
had Berengar not shifted around and placed his hands be-
neath her shoulders. As her head came up, and I saw her
face for the first time, I felt a fist crush my heart. It was not
what I had experienced when I first saw Larissa, but an
imperfect echo of it. She looked enough like her grandaunt
that I was reminded of the person I had now lost.

The smile on Aarundel's face was all that kept my spirit
from dying right then and there. "This, Neal Elfward,
is my granddaughter, Genevera. Gena, this is Neal
Roclawzi."

She bowed her head toward me, letting her thick braid
slither over Berengar's hand and her shoulder. "This is a
dream come true for me, meeting you."

I nodded, unable to think of anything to say. My mind
yet reeled at my existence. My hands came up and touched
my chest. I saw no bruise, no indication that my battle with
Takrakor had ever taken place, yet the absence of
Aarundel's eye told me it had. "My wounds." I grabbed
Aarundel's shoulder. "I was dying. What happened?"

Aarundel glanced down. "You died."

Genevera smiled at me. "I saved you. I repaired you
and brought you back to life."

My jaw dropped- "I was dead?"

410    Michael A. Stackpole

"Yes, but I fixed you." She frowned at the disbelief in
my voice. "The magick, the spells woven into the
tomb. . ."

"Tomb?"

She looked back toward the stone structure, but my
attention was drawn more to the fact that she moved so
like Larissa, than to the building. "That was your tomb. I
triggered the spells in there and brought you back. I healed
you."

"You brought me back to a world I do not know. You
have healed me."

Gena nodded emphatically. "Yes, that is what I did."

I stared at her wide-eyed. "But I never wanted to be
healed."

"What?"

"I never wanted to come back. And you bring me back
after Larissa has gone beyond?" I turned to AaAmdel.
"How did this happen? How did you let it happen?"

Aarundel steeled himself to reply. "There are many
things that I must explain to you. . . .**

I wanted none of it and let my confusion slip over into
irrational anger. "Why couldn't you just let me stay dead? I
may not have been of an Elder race, but that should not
make me your plaything. How could you think so little of
me?*'

Aarundel stood abruptly and, grabbing my arm,
brought me up with him. He shoved me against the Consil-
liarii tree, and I saw the old fire smoldering in his eye.
"Damn you, Neal, you know it was not that! You and I, we
were brothers. You said so yourself."

"I would have let you die, brother."

"And I watched you die, brother, inch by inch as
Takrakor's magick gnawed its way through you." He
jerked his thumb back into his chest. "I was with you when
you took Cleaveheart from Jammaq, and I have rejoiced
every day that you were brave enough to come to Jammaq
to steal Marta and me away from the Reithrese. Can you
deny me wanting to rescue you from the last of their per-
fidy? Can you fault me for wanting to let you see my sister
one more time? Can you fault me for hoping, one day, that

Once a Hero   411

you and I might walk again together through the vales of
Cygesrolia?"

He straightened up and watched me closely- "If you
can, then know, brother, that the same fault is harbored in
your breast, for I have done nothing here for you that you
would not have done for me. Go ahead, tell me I am
wrong. Do so and I will apologize, but I will not regret
what I have done."

Chapter 33

The Puppet's Strings
Justified

Late Autumn
AA 499
The Present

The man Gena had brought back from the dead covered
his face with both hands. Leaning back against the Consil-
liarii tree, he hung there halfway between upright and pros-
trate. Part of her expected him to sob, but her mental
image of Neal the hero killed that idea instantly. That was
the sort of weak emotion of which she did not believe he
was capable.

She shivered because much confused her. She had not
considered what his reaction to being resurrected might be.
Well, she had, but she had assumed he would respond with
gratitude. All Men she had known carried with them a fear
of death. In Rik it had been small and in others all but
crippling. She had thought that any Man offered a chance
to defeat death would readily accept it and be overjoyed at
being returned to life.

Neal seemed to resent what she did for him, and resent
it greatly. More surprising than that was her grandfather's
apparent anticipation of that resentment. He had known

Once a Hero   413

what to expect from Neal, but he had chosen not to warn
her. That was a side of her grandfather she had never
known before, and it scared her.

"Grandfather, what is happening here?"

Neal lowered his hands. "Explain, Aarundel, if you
can."

Aarundei lifted his head and appeared defiant in the
face of their questions- "On the road, after you had been
given that sleeping draught, it became obvious you would
die. You had clearly stated your preferences about magick,
and Cletine was unable to reverse the spell that had been
cast upon you, so our disagreement on that point was
moot. Cletine was able to use a spell to isolate you within
time. It managed to slow the damage being done to you by
Takrakor's magick. My intention, in having him cast that
, spell upon you, was to allow you to see Larissa one more
time. That was, I felt, the least I could do for you."
The man nodded briefly. "For that I thank you."
"That decision led directly to this consequence."
Aarundel opened his arms and took in Cygestolia with his
hands. "In the wake of the annihilation of the Reithrese
there was much mourning and reioicing here among the
sylvanii. And much thinking. You lay in state in the Consil-
liarii chamber for a month, with my sister there always.
Your role in the Reithrese extermination and her love for
you provoked much thought. And catalyzed much in the
way of change."

He looked over at Gena, and she became fully aware of
the pressure of Berengar's hands on her shoulders. "The
law that separated you from Larissa was swept away in a
vote that was nearly unanimous."

Neal looked up. "Finndati?"

"He died at Alatun. Those who voted against you were
Vorrin and other reactionaries. The humiliation that came
from their votes prompted them to go beyond shortly
thereafter." AarundePs eye focused distantly, and his face
slackened slightly into an expression Gena recognized from
when he used to tell her stories of the days he traveled with
Neal. "There also arose among the mages a contest to
counter Takrakor's magick. While your wishes were well-
known on the matter, the mages said the spell cast upon

414    Michael A. Stackpole

you was the last trace of the Reithrese in the world and,
therefore, should be expunged. They made it a matter of
safety as well as pride."

Gena frowned. "What do you mean when you talk
about Neal's wishes on the matter?"

Neal wearily raised his left hand and showed her the
back of it. "I always refused magickal healing. That is why
I am so scarred. Your grandfather asked me to reconsider
as I lay dying. I refused."

Gena felt her guts twist into a knot. "I did not know."

"It is true, Neal, she did not." Aarundel looked straight
at his friend. "We told her everything about you, but we
hid your feelings concerning curative magick from her."

"What?" Gena struggled to her feet. "Why?"

"Because it was necessary." Aarundel cut her off by
stashing his hand through the air. "The mages worked for
over two centuries to figure out what they would hrfve to
do to counteract Takrakor's magick, and they created a
regimen of spells that would successfully do the job. These
they made a present to my sister. They—in reality all of the
sylvanii—felt it was her decision to make, whether or not
to use them. They raised this tomb and placed you inside it,
giving her, through the bracelet you made, the only access
to it."

Gena watched muscles bunch at the corners of NeaPs
Jaw. "So Larissa accepted this gift even though she knew I
did not want it? How could she?"

Fire sparked in Aarundel's eye. "Yow knew what you
wanted. I knew what you wanted. She knew what you
wanted. You didn't think to ask what she wanted. That is
the burden of vitamor, Neal. It is not your wants or her
wants, but what you want together that matters!"

The white-haired Elf stared up at the sky as the anger
drained from his voice. "You will never know how much
your death hurt Larissa, Neal. She always held herself in
control, but there were times when I could see it. A tear.
The way her voice would crack. The fact that her laugh
was never unrestrained after your death. She loved you so
fiercely that she would have done anything to bring you
back—anything but violate your wishes."

Neal wrapped his right arm across his chest and cov-




Once a Hero   415

ered his face with his left hand. "What I did to you, my
love . . ." Gena could see his jaw moving, but no more
words escaped his mouth. Suddenly he hammered his right
fist against the bark of the Consilliarii tree. "How could I
have been so cruel?"

His question hung in the air, leaving him open for re-
crimination, but Aarundel answered him gently. "We both
wanted you back with us, but we respected your wishes.
No matter how much it hurt, she would not violate them.
Her love for you prevented action for the first century or
so, then fear took over."

"Fear? Of me?" Neal's hand came away from his face.
"I never would have knowingly hurt her."

"She knew that, my friend." Aarundel stepped forward
and laid his hands on Neal's shoulders. "She was afraid of
your reaction if she brought you back. You would have
been three centuries out of your time. She was afraid you
would hate her for being so selfish as to bring you back
when the world you had known had vanished. I tried to tell
her she was wrong, but she would not listen."

"And here I react as she predicted I would, justifying
her fears."

"Your anger is understandable."

Neal shook his head. "That's not entirely true, but she
should not have thought any anger would turn into hatred.
We would have been together. A thousand years could
have passed, and I would have been very happy to return to
her."

Aarundel folded his arms. "I think she knew that, but it
led into her other, far greater fear. What she dreaded—the
thing that truly stopped her from using the magicks herself
—was that she would not survive losing you again. That
pain . . ." Aarundel raised his hands and let them fall
again as he shrugged wordlessly.

Neal balled his fists in frustration. "I know her pain. I
am here and she is forever beyond my reach."

"Remember she loved you very weli and truly, for she
did things in your name neither of us ever would have
contemplated otherwise." Aarundel looked over at Gena
and then away again. "We hatched a plot, my sister and I.
My son, Niall, showed no aptitude for magick, so we had

416    Michael A. Stackffole

to wait. His daughter, Genevera, did have a talent for
magick. Larissa taught her a great deal about magick and
about you. I taught her mostly about Men and you. We
created for her a very strong portrait of you, yet one that
was incomplete. We wanted, we expected, that some day
she would want to complete it. She would use the spells
that Larissa would not to bring you back, and when my
sister deemed her sufficiently powerful, she went beyond,
hoping you would understand."

Gena's jaw dropped. "You used me to bring him back
against his wishes?"

Aarundel faced her squarely. "You were not overly con-
cerned about his wishes when you chose to act."

"I acted because doing that seemed a viable solution to
the current problem! Had I known he never used magick to
heal himself, I never would have done this."

Neal stared up at his friend. "I'm thinking, Aarundel, I
cannot believe you would have done this. You warped your
own granddaughter into bringing me back?"

"What is so hard to believe, Neal? Have you forgotten
how the Consilliarii offered you my sister to prevent the
war with the Reithrese? Am I not of the same blood and
the same culture that offered you that devil's choice?"

"I thought you were different."

"I am different!" Aarundel's anger flooded through his
voice. "Larissa would not bring you back. I could not bring
you back, yet I knew that your death was the fault of me
and my people. We knew and had known for ages that one
day we would be forced to go to war with the Reithrese,
yet we were willing to do anything we could to forestall
that eventuality. We were willing to let them slaughter Men
to build their empire because we thought it would deflect
them away from us. You forced us to remember they had
aligned themselves with Death, and because they had done
so, there was no way to avoid a conflict.

"You also put a face on Humanity for us. You showed
us that all the noble and virtuous thoughts and traditions
we ascribed to ourselves also applied to Men. When you
refused my sister to save me and my wife, you shamed a
nation. You made us realize that for us to sacrifice Human-
ity to preserve ourselves was incredibly arrogant and the

Once a Hero   417

height of hubris. You died in a war we should have waged
centuries ago, you died wrongfully, and 1 chose to do what-
ever I had to do to redress that wrong."

Her grandfather faced her and Gena saw pain in his
single eye. "Had I a choice, Genevera, I would have done
what you did and have earned the ire for it that you have
earned. You were a tool in my hands, so all blame should
fall to me. I do not expect you to forgive me, but I hope
you will understand me."

Gena wanted to scream at him and almost did, but a
voice inside her stopped her. Yes, she had been used. Her
grandfather and grandaunt had deceived her. They had
tricked her into doing something they could not bring
themselves to do. For that they deserved all of her anger.

However, they had not forced her to raise Neal from
the dead. She had jumped at the chance, for reasons she
could only barely begin to fathom. She knew, in part, that
her willingness to participate came from the fact that if she
were successful, she would have done something her grand-
aunt, her mentor, had been unwilling and unable to at-
tempt. Bringing Neal back had been her opportunity to
prove how much she had learned and how skilled she had
become. Her discovery of the deception turned that pride
into a knife that sliced through her ego and stabbed deep
into her self-esteem, but as an Elf she knew herself heir to a
big piece of the hubris her grandfather had just described.

"I understand you, grandfather." Rik's image flashed
through her mind. "I understand your wanting your friend
back, and even your desire to see the wrongs committed
against him redressed. And I can forgive you because my
part in this was prompted by similar motivations."

She slipped the bracelet from her wrist and walked over
to Neal- "You made this for my grandaunt, and she trea-
sured it for the five centuries she agonized over you and
your fate. She loved you more than you will ever know,
and it was her love reflected through me that finished the
process that brought you back to life. If not for her love,
you would not live now."

The comers of Neal's mouth tucked back in a quick
smile. "I lived for her love, fitting now that I live because
of it."

418    Michael A. Stackpole

Gena held the bracelet out toward him and saw him
draw back from her. "I am not worthy to wear this. Take
it, wear it in her memory. You made it so she could remem-
ber you; now it is your turn to remember her through it."

Neal took it from her and slipped it tight around his
own right wrist. He smiled up at her, then looked back
down at the silver bracelet. "Thank you." He frowned,
then shook his head. "Forgive me for my reaction. I'm
thinking that being dead does not do much for one's man-
ners."

Gena smiled back at him. "No offense taken. This has
to be a shock."

"That it is. So much has changed."

"Not as much as you might think, Neal."

Neal looked over at Berengar. "How is that . . . Ber-
engar, was it?"

"Berengar Fisher. Five centuries ago you were chasing
Haladin raiders through Centisia. Like locusts they are
back."

Neal straightened up and stood free of the tree. "If
you're half the warrior as was the man whose form you
wear, those raiders would not be much of a threat."

Berengar nodded at Gena. "As Lady Genevera can at-
test, we give better than we get, but we cannot root them
out of Centisia fully because some are there under the pro-
tection of the Riveren, er, Riveraven family. Because of this
alliance, the Riverens threaten to overwhelm my family.
The prohibition on violence between our families that you
laid down prevents us from being able to fight back."

Gena nodded. "We have been searching for Cleaveheart
and Wasp so we can undo what you did in Aurdon. We
believe we have found Cleaveheart's resting place, in
Jarudin, but the obvious way to recover the sword is keyed
to the dagger Wasp. Wasp was lost in Jammaq and never
recovered. We need to know if there is another way to get
the sword, and to answer that question, we had to bring
you back to life."

"A fair question that is, and I'm thinking you expect me
to answer in the affirmative, else you'd not have gone to all
this trouble." Neal's green eyes narrowed in a frown. "I'm
afraid, though, that I was not smart enough to think of a

Once a Hero   419

second way to open the vault. I had sort of intended to
have Cleaveheart locked away forever, which, I'm think-
ing, I would likely have pegged as five centuries or so, given
how I was thinking at the time."

"Damn and damn." Berengar's hands bunched into
fists. "Without that blade, my family is lost."

Neal cocked an eyebrow at him. "Well, we can't have
that."

"But we can't fix it either, because only Wasp can open
the vault, and Wasp is gone."

"Not at all." Neal pointed off to the northeast. "It's off
that way."

Aarundel looked shocked. "What? How do you know
that?"

Neal looked at his pointing finger as if it were an alien
part of himself. "I don't know how I know, my friend, but
it's out there. I know it the same way I knew where
Takrakor was when we waited outside Atatun."

The two of them looked at each other. "Neal, you don't
think . . . ?'

"Think, not likely- Fear, on the other hand . . ." Neal
clapped his hands on her grandfather's shoulders, and she
saw Aarundel smile proudly. "Tell you what, my friend, Pd
be thankful for the loan of weapons and supplies- If we're
right, I'm thinking I've got some work to finish, and five
centuries is far too long a time to have left it undone."

Chapter 34

The Ties Even Death
Cannot Sever

_x

Late Autumn
A.R. 499
The Present
My 536th Year

Despite Berengar's statement to the contrary, I found very
little to be as I remembered it from before Alatun.
AarundePs aging and the presence of a stone building on
the Consilliarii island were but two of the changes time had
wrought in Cygestolia. It was not grossly different—I still
remembered my way around—but all the trees appeared to
be a bit lighter in their shades of green, and a few of the
smaller ones were sporting leaves of red and gold. Even
though I had seen seasonal changes in Cygestolia and the
Elven Holdings before the Reithrese campaign, I thought
these new changes more chronic than seasonal.

Woodspire, by contrast, had grown larger and fuller. I
saw more in the way of things that a Man might find famil-
iar, and reorienting myself to its internal geography proved
not that difficult. Even so, when I went to turn down a
corner to the chamber that had been mine, Aarundel

Once a Hero   421

Steered me on and up some stairs to a grander suite of
rooms.

"These we created for you, in the event of your return."
He smiled at me. "Larissa guided the project."

I could not help myself but to smile. The huge chamber
had as its centerpiece a stone garden akin to the one in the
tower at Jarudm. One whole wall had a map made from
blocks of different woods, all textured to represent moun-
tains, valleys, rivers, deltas, lakes, and cities. I recognized
the general layout of the terrain, though some of the politi-
cal borders surprised me. The room had been furnished
with chairs and chest that I would have chosen, and I felt a
pang in my heart when I realized the depth of care Lanssa
had put into creating this room for me.

"I am honored."

"Then we are very happy." A silver-haired sylvanesti
slipped into the room behind Berengar and nestled in be-
neath Aarundel's right arm. "I have waited a long time to
see you again, Neal Elfward."

"Macta?" I bowed to her.

As I straightened up, she surprised me and stepped for-
ward to hug me. I tried to hold her back, fearful of what
would happen when we touched, but neither she nor
Aarundel appeared to be the least bit concerned of the con-
sequences of her action. She wrapped her arms around my
chest and squeezed. "I have long wanted to do this to
thank you for saving our lives in Jammaq."

When Aarundei smiled and nodded at me, I let my
hands slip from her shoulders and around her back to en-
fold her in a hug. The scent of lilacs rose from her hair, and
the long silver locks tickled against my chest. She felt so
frail and light in my arms, yet I sensed a strength flowing
through her. Afraid I might crush her, 1 held her as tightly
as I dared, then I eased myself free of her arms.

She looked hurt for a moment, then her alabaster flesh
flushed pink. "Forgive me, Neal, I know this must alt be
strange for you."

I nodded. "It is, a bit. I can recall times when I wanted
to take Larissa into my arms and could not, even though I
sought only to comfort her, not seduce her. And now, the
idea that I can hold you without Aarundel fearing your loss

422    Michael A. Stackpole

or my death—and I'm thinking the former is more his fear
than the latter—it is something I will have to become used
to."

"Because of you, it is possible." Marta retreated into
AarundePs arms, but smiled at me nonetheless. "The law
that prohibited our touching was foolish, and I hope it
remains in its grave ten times as long as you did."

I smiled and looked down at my hands, still feeling her
in my arms and pressed against my chest. "Though it is five
hundred years late, I must thank you, Marta, for saving my
life in Alatun."

"But I was not there."

I laughed aloud. "Not in form, but in spirit, to
Takrakor's regret. The spell you put on the tooth fragment
in the dagger you gave me told me that he waited for me in
Alatun. There he managed to do some things to me that,
well, put me in quite a state. He kept getting closer to
strengthen his link to me, and it strengthened the one you
created. Then I smashed the fragment of his tooth against
the stone floor."

Marta's hand rose to her own Jaw. "Oh, my."

"That, I'm thinking, is likely the tamest of language he
had running through his brain." I shrugged, then worked
my shoulders around to loosen them. "He was distracted
and I cut him with Cleaveheart. I thought I had killed him,
but the link with "Wasp seems to be working still, which
means Takrakor might yet be alive."

My right index finger again wanted to point off to the
northeast, but I held it in check. "We need Wasp if we are
to get Cleaveheart back and solve Berengar's problems."

Aarundel nodded. "Recovering the dagger and getting
back to Aurium/Aurdon will take some planning. The
sooner we are started, the sooner we will finish."

It was interesting to watch the changes that time had
wrought in Aarundel. He had always been a capable leader
and a meticulous planner, but he served as an adviser to me
by his own choice when we fought together in the Steel
Pack. In the years since Alatun he had grown into the sort
of leader that his father and grandfather had been. From

Once a Hero   423

the start I knew he would not be accompanying me on the
quest to get Cleaveheart back, but he would do everything
he could to guarantee us success.

The first thing he did was order tailors, armorers, and
swordsmiths to come and begin preparing me proper
clothes and tools for our journey. I learned quickly that
styles had changed in everything from boots and tunics to
armor and swords. What I preferred, of course, was con-
sidered archaic, but I conceded to conventional wisdom in
the area of fashion, though I did insist on a blade rather
stouter than this rapier-thing Berengar seemed to favor.
Aarundel had a sword made to my specifications, but also
commissioned a rapier for me.

Once I had clothes enough for a short journey,
Aarundel arranged for me to travel with him via the circus
translatio to a spot roughly three hundred miles north of
Cygestolia. Before we left, with me sitting on the back of
Scurra, a multiply-great grandson of Blackstar, Aarundel
and some astronomers had me point off toward where
Wasp was located. They planted stakes in the ground par-
allel with my arm and on a map drew a line up and off the
edge of the map that corresponded to the direction in
which I pointed.

After we arrived at the circus grove to the north,
Aarundel had me again point toward Wasp. I noted myself
that I pointed more easterly than northeasterly this time,
and that appeared to please Aarundel. He looked at the
stars and made some notes, then we settled down, just the
two of us, to rest up for three days before we headed back
to Cygestolia.

In the darkness, with the two of us swaddled in blan-
kets to keep the cold out, it felt as if we had never been
apart. We remembered bits and pieces of battles as if they
had happened only yesterday. A light snow started to fall,
and it seemed to me as if we were back in the Hiris moun-
tains, tricking the Reithrese into believing the Red Tiger's
whole army had been trapped there.

He told me about how the whole battle at Alatun had
run. My heart swelled with pride as he described the Steel
Pack holding the gate to the city despite attackers inside
and out. When the magickal components of the Reithrese

424    Michael A. Stackpole

army fell apart, the Elven host had overwhelmed them.
Those that could retreat tried to do so in good order, then
were crushed against the walls of the city they had sought
to defend.

"Those of us who were wounded were taken away, but
the rest of the army scoured the countryside and killed
everyone and anyone they saw of Reithrese descent. We
prepared mass graves and buried the lot of them. We de-
stroyed their cities and sterilized their land with fire; then
we salted the earth and erased any trace of their having
existed—at least any trace within Reith itself. As a people
the Reithrese are forgotten except among degenerates and
the Haladina, who drill their teeth and set them with gems
in remembrance of their former masters."

I nodded. "It sounds as if you did a thorough Job."

Aarundel stared into the little fire we had blazing near
our feet. "I would have been happier had a complete re-
cord been kept of the Reithrese, along with a list of the
dead, but there were thousands and thousands of them. I
don't know if cataloging them would have been possible.
For example, I would have preferred to have found
Takrakor's body. If he yet lives . . ."

I shrugged. "He was the serpent's head. When it was
struck off, the body died. Now we will have to make dou-
bly certain the head remains dead. Do you think, with him
alive, if there were a corps of Reithrese survivors they
would not have tried to avenge themselves upon Elves and
Men before this?"

"That point has merit, and I am foolish enough to take
comfort in it." He leaned back against an old log and be-
gan to tell me of his life since my demise. He proved a
proud father and prouder grandfather, citing some of the
adventures Niall, Gena, and her brother, Finnwick, had
enjoyed- He told me of Gena's lover, Durnken, and his
having recovered the msignii nuptialis from the vault of
some collector.

"You have prospered in my absence, and of that I am
proud, my friend."

"But it was your sacrifice that made it all possible."
Aarundel's hand came up, forestalling any reply on my
part; then he pointed off toward the east.

Once a Hero   425

Excepting the crackle of the fire and my own heartbeat,
I heard nothing for a moment or two. Then I caught the
faint sounds of something approaching our campsite. I
reached over to where the hilt of my sword lay, but re-
frained from drawing it as, in one huge leap, a hulking
shadowed form landed at the edge of the firelight circle.

It poked its muzzle into the air and took a healthy sniff-
"Neal Roclawzi, you are."

In size and shape it looked a lot like Shijef, but its color-
ation differed radically. Half its face, starting from the
muzzle and taking in the left ear, was black. The other side
started white at the muzzle, but became grey-blue around
the eye and across the cheek and ear. The body fur tended
toward black except for a grey V-blaze at its throat and
white on its paws. There was no doubt it was a Dreel, but
its presence so far from its normal range surprised me.

"I am Neal Roclawzi."

"Defeated Shijer in single combat you did?" It hunched
down on its haunches and cocked its head at me. "Show
me."

I opened my blanket cocoon and lifted my warm
woolen tunic. The Dreel peered in closely at the bite scars
Shijef had left on me. "I was much younger then, so if you
seek the same sort of contest, I will decline,"

It shook its head, then raised its muzzle to the sky and
let out a howl that chilled me more than the night air.
"Stulklirn am I. Shijef-sired through Bactha, Sorria, Skac-
tin, Borna, and Byoni. Of the seventh generation am I, and
the first to be honored by your presence," The beast low-
ered his head until his chin touched the ground. "The bar-
gain is and fulfillment am I. The same heart have we."

Stulklirn's words echoed those of his great, great, great,
great grandfather, bringing remembrance to my brain and
a smile to my face. "We have the same heart."

The Dreel's head came up and he howled happily- His
bushy tail stirred up leaves behind him, it beat so against
the ground. "What service would you have of me?"

"Sit, for the moment." I pointed to a spot a bit closer
yet stili slightly downwind of us. "Does Shiief still live?"

"Lives in his children he does. Many kin, many lives."
Stulklirn extended a paw toward the fire, then pulled it

426    Michael A. Stackpole

back and sniffed at it. "Waited, did we, for you. When you
came, I was chosen."

"How did you know?"

The Dreel shrugged. "Knew, did I." His agate eyes
sparkled with excitement. "Chosen was I because to you
fast I could get. That Bactha's gift is."

I glanced over at Aarundel. "Dreelbands were smalt
and not widely spread when I was alive. Are there more of
them now?"

"I confess I do not know. With the spread of Mankind,
I suspect many of their ranges have grown smaller, but I
have heard little or nothing of the Dreel since the fall of the
Reithrese."

"Hidden we have been, waiting. Shijef and Man-Neal
allies. In service to the Dun Wolf are we. Protect denmen."
The Dreel looked to me for some confirmation that what
he was saying was true, so I nodded and smiled at him. "In
Dreel-land, Shijef emperor. All Dreel him praise."

Aarundel shrugged. "When we return to Cygestolia,
ask Genevera about the Dreel. She has a very good under-
standing of folklore—especially the legends that still are
sung about you. I am certain she knows of the Dreel."

Stulklirn's ears pricked up- "To Cygestolia you go?
Take you there I will."

He started to get up, but I restrained him with a hand.
"We have the grove as soon as we are rested."

The Dreel shook his head. "Trees slow are. Stulklim
much faster with Bactha's gift is."

I glanced at Aarundel and decided from his raised eye-
brow that we both had missed what Stulklim believed he
was making obvious. "Bactha's gift, it allows you to go
between places?"

The Dreel thumped his chest with a paw. "Mastery of
Roadfast, have I. Longstepper am I."

"Well then, Stulklim Longstepper, tomorrow or the day
after we will let you take us to Cygestolia."

"Until then?"

I shrugged. "Until then, we sleep and talk and wait."

"Waiting I have done." The Dreel opened his mouth in
a canine leer. "Waiting with allies better is."

Once a Hero    427

Over the next two days Aarundel had me point toward
where I felt Wasp was, and the measurements he took al-
ways appeared to be roughly the same. He explained to me
that he would draw the line indicated by my pointing on
the same map as he had drawn the line for the first point.
Where those two lines crossed would be the area in which
we could find Wasp.

The Dreel took great interest in what Aarundel was
doing, and from time to time I found them locked in con-
versations as deep as those that Lomthelgar and Shijef had
shared. Even allowing for the fact that Shi[ef had been
surly and hostile toward me, with good reaso^ Stulklirn
appeared to me to be smarter than his progenitor. He
learned very quickly and patiently worked with our horses
so they could get used to his scent.

As had Shijef before him, Stulklirn used the Dreel ver-
sion of the circus translatio to take us back to Cygestolia.
We arrived in the grove, and once again I noticed that we
were not as tired as we had been when we used the grove to
head out, Stulklirn immediately bounded off to explore the
forests—he assured us that he would find us—while
Aarundel and I rode back to Woodspire.

We found Berengar and Genevera in the central cham-
ber of my suite. They both studied the map upon which the
first line had been drawn. Aarundel added the line deter-
mined by the new measurements, and Berengar groaned as
they intersected in the frozen wastes above Mannkito.

"That means we must take into account an expedition
into the Rimefields." He squinted at the map. "Our jour-
ney will cover two thousand miles at the very least, with a
tenth of that in the ice barrens."

I frowned. "People used to live there when I was alive."

"And they still do, at a bare subsistence level. By the
time we make it there, it will be the dead of winter. We will
be fighting storms, and there is no way we can carry
enough provisions to last us there and back again." He
glared at me as if it were my fault where Wasp ended up.
^ "At best we will be in Aurdon this time next year."

I tapped the map near the center of Irtysh. "If we

428    Michael A. Stackpole

started here, we'd be looking at five hundred miles or so.
Provisions and travel will need to account for less than two
months out and two back in the worst case."

Berengar folded his arms. "That would be correct, if we
could start m Irtysh, but we are over here in Cygestolia.
How do we get there?"

Aarundel smiled, so I didn't have to. "A Dreel with a
most amazing ability has pledged himself to NeaTs ser-


vice.

"A Dreel?" The delight in Gena's voice brought the
smile to my lips that I had denied Berengar. "A Dreel like
Shijef?"

I nodded. "His great-great-something-grandson."

Berengar looked at all of us as if we were crazy. "Dreels
are myths."

"I'm thinking I was a myth up until a week ago.**

Gena bent forward and took a good look at the map.
"Neal, did you ever fight a creature up m the Rimefields? A
big Man-eating monster?"

I shook my head, then glanced at Aarundel. "I can't
remember anything like that."

Aarundel shook his head as well. "We never ventured
into the Rimefields. Closest we got was when you fought
Shijef in Irtysh."

"Dreels again." Berengar frowned imperiously.
"Myths."

Gena tapped the map under the shallow X the two lines
had made. "I remember hearing something about an ice-
monster living in a smoking ice mountain up here. It eats
Men, it is said, and there is a legend about your fighting it,
but I think that was cobbled together from other heroic
songs from Rzyani sources."

"There's another myth for you, my lord." I smiled care-
fully at Berengar. "Genevera, does that monster have a
name?"

"Bacorzi, Pacorzi . . . Tacorai perhaps."

Aarundel and I again looked at each other. "Takrakor?
Smash down the middle and add the 'zi* for his living in a
mountain."

The elder Elf nodded. "Had I thought he still lived, I
might have made the connection myself and acted upon it."

Once a Hero   429

I shook my head. "There was no way you could link
that myth and Takrakor, and we still might be wrong
about it. We won't know until we get there."

"And when you do?"

"I'll ask him politely to give me back my knife, and
when he refuses, I'll do to him what I meant to do five
hundred years ago."

Chapter 35

New Tricks
for an Old Wolf

Early Winter
A.R. 499
The Present

In retrospect Gena saw how it had begun, though had she
been asked at the start of the expedition, she would have
said there would have been no trouble among the four of
them. No one had been designated leader of the group,
though she had still seen Berengar in that role, since he had
initiated the whole thing. Neal functioned as a guide and
adviser, and while she was certain that was how he would
have characterized his role, he just naturally asserted him-
self and gave his opinion when any questions came up.

The Dreel had helped polarize things very quickly be-
cause of his devotion to Neal and utter lack of respect for
Berengar. And Berengar, while an intelligent and skilled
man, had not traveled much in the northern nations and
not at all by the circus translatio. The exertion of using that
route to get from Cygestolia to the grove to the east of
Jarudin seriously wore him out. As a result his temper was
shorter than usual, and he did not rein it back in.

Neal, on the other hand, seemed to weather travel by

Once a Hero   431

^' the circus better than even she did. She felt embarrassed
^- awakening to the sound of Neal and Stulklirn dumping
f- armloads of wood near the edge of the campsite to feed the

fire that kept her warm. "How can you be so full of en-
^CTgy?"

The Man shrugged. "I'm thinking I must have rested a
great deai while I was dead."

'   Gena yawned. "I apologize for awakening you. Had I
, known . . ."

Neal shook his head- "Now I'm the one who should be
r apologizing. Someone brings you back from the dead, and

you get angry with them? I'm thinking I was more man-
; nerly dealing with the Reithrese emperor in Jarudin than I
f was with you and Aarundel. Never was one to wake up all
[ cheery, though."

|   Gena stretched and tossed her blanket across Berengar's
? feet. She stood and walked over to where Neal squatted.
iShe held her hands out to the fire. "That feels good."
^  "Something about a fire that warms the body and
^prompts talk that warms the soul. Many's the friendship
yielded together over a campfire."
|   Gena sat down and poked a stick into the fire. "Did
^you and my grandaunt spend much time talking over a
|fire?"

u   Nea! thought for a second, and Gena saw sadness
,'flicker over his face. "Once, for a bit, but it didn't last.
\ That was the night that Takrakor and his warriors took
- your grandfather away. We had more fires on that trip, of
^ course, but we didn't do much talking."

The pain in his voice made her want to hug him, but as
'' she reached out, he withdrew. "Neal, there is no prohibi-
t-tion against our touching."

E .;  He gave her a smile, but it died quickly. "I know this,
\ lut I fought so long to keep from hugging Larissa, that it's
a habit I can't break."

"You could if you tried."

Neal shrugged. "True, but then I'd have to deal with
v.tfae fact that I'd be hugging the grandniece of the sylvanesti
J.l love. To go from living in a Eomb to robbing a cradle is a
^bit much right now."

432 Michael A. Stackpole

"Neat, I am only slightly younger than Larissa was
when you met her."

"Which means I'm twice your age."

"I do not think the five hundred years you lay dead
count against you. Would you deny yourself the charms of
a woman just shy a score years?"

Neal seemed to consider that for a moment, then shook
his head. "That would be a bit different."

"How so?"

"Being as how I'm an old dog, and succumbing to the
charms of a woman is an old trick, I can see myself doing
it. Actually being able to touch a sylvanesti is a new trick."

"You could leam new tricks if you wanted." Gena laid
a thick piece of wood on the fire. "I could teach you."
Though it came out innocently, she immediately looked up
to see how he would interpret her words. I didn't mean I
could teach him about loving a sylvanesti—or did I?

Neal raised an eyebrow, then smiled. "I'm thinking
there is one trick you might be able to teach me, if you
wouldn't mind."

"Yes?"

He jerked his head toward her baggage. "I saw you
packing away some things that Aarundel called flash-
drakes. I gather they are some sort of weapon, but I don't
recall seeing their like before."

"The Dwarves made them first, and still make the best,
but even the Haladina have begun to manufacture them. It
is a new weapon, however. These flashdrakes belonged to
Durriken." Gena hesitated, instantly afraid of Neat's reac-
tion to what she would say next. "He was my lover, a
Man, like yourself. The Haladina murdered him in
Aurdon."

Neal did grow a bit distant as she spoke, but remained
keenly interested in what she said. "Your grandfather told
me of Durriken and how he got the insigne nuptialis back. I
think I would have liked him."

"Stories about you intrigued Rik quite a bit." Gena
stared down at the fire. "He and I were together for three
years, then the Haladina took him away from me."

"So Berengar wants to save his family in this, and
you're looking to avenge Durriken's death?"

Once a Hero   433

**I guess so. It started as an expedition to help a friend
recover Cleaveheart and Wasp, but Rik*s murder has made
at personal. I carry the flashdrakes because they, and this
ling, are alt I have to remember him by. The Haladina
' killed him with the Death of Eight Cuts."
'-;    Neal winced. "That is not a nice way to die." He shook
:^ histead. "I guess things have changed a great deal, because
|> I can't imagine a sylvanesti in the arms of a Haladina."
^    "Nor can L The Haladina have taken to setting gems in
^ ^tfacir teeth to remind themselves of the days of the
K> Reithrese."

t.    Neal looked confused for a moment, then glanced again
H-at her baggage. "So will you show me how to use these
^flashdrakes?"

She nodded. "We will have to walk away from camp,
- because they are very loud."

Neal stood and brushed his hands off on the thighs of
i breeches. "Stulklirn, will you watch Berengar and make
tain he is not harmed while he sleeps?"
The Dreel nodded and crouched down at Berengar's
id. "Watch, I will." The creature's feral grin suggested to

•aa that the Dreel would have waited an eternity just to
ttcc the moment of terror in Berengar's eyes when he awoke
d found a Dreel hunched over him.
Neal hefted the saddlebags containing the flashdrakes
d led her off on a little path away from the grove. They
ked over a series of leaf-covered hills and descended into
Jy-a little valley with steep walls that ran roughly twenty-five
plwds before it curved off to the south. "This should chan-
^•ad the noise away from the grove, I'm thinking."
^  Gena nodded and cast about for a suitable target. She
yfipw a large mushroom, from which she tore the cap and
' "red on down the gully. She leaned it up against a tree
had fallen across the ravine, then returned to Neal's
,'That should do."

I, f^ Neal set the saddlebags down, then took a step back
ll^toni them. Gena dropped to one knee and opened the one
t.SBteh the flashdrakes. She took them out and handed one to
l^^im, then carefully explained and walked through each
of loading her weapon. Neal aped her movements,
her intently, and asked no question.

434    Michael A. Stackpole

Gena found being under his scrutiny both challenging
and thrilling. She worked methodically and slowly to toad
the flashdrake and, in doing so, found the Job rather akin
to the various ritualized forms of magick she had learned
from Larissa. That helped her overcome some of her ner-
vousness and gave her confidence. Neal seemed to appreci-
ate her precision because he worked to imitate her exactly
in all she did.

It struck her as being utterly incongruous that she was
standing there in Ispar teaching a legend how to operate a
weapon that had not come into use until well after his
death. That she was even able to speak with him-after she
had spent her life idolizing him and seeking knowledge
about him was unbelievable. That she might have some-
thing to offer him, that was the sort of thing of which
fantasies were spun.

Finally she drew the flashdrake's talon back and
pointed the weapon at the toadstool. "There will be one
initial flash, then a larger one and some thunder. Brace
yourself."

Neal nodded and she pulled the trigger- The talon
struck a spark down into the pan, and the priming powder
flared up bright red, then collapsed into a gout of smoke
that obscured the target. She held her hand steady, then the
pistol charge went off- The thunder from the flashdrake hid
any sound of the lead ball hitting the target, but when the
smoke cleared, the toadstool was gone, as well as a bit of
the tree.

Neal smiled sheepishly, a yard back from where he had
been standing. "It was loud, wasn't it?"

"Indeed. Come, let's see how I did."

The both of them ran down to where the toadstool had
been and laughed as they pulled up short. The fallen tree
showed a splintery furrow where the ball had plowed into
the wood a bit to the right of the toadstool. The beige
target had been knocked from the log by the impact and
lay on the ground. Gena picked it up, inspected it, and
frowned. "We are shooting a long way off, and I am not
that good a shot."

Neal fingered the bullet groove. "Were that ball an ar-
row and the toadstool a warrior's chest, you'd have

Once a Hero   435

S* gkewered his liver. And the way it splintered the wood, I'm
dunking armor's of little use."

Gena set the toadstool back in place. "Your turn."
They returned to the saddlebags, and Gena watched as
Neal loaded the weapon. The only mistake he almost made
was in reaching for the finer-grained priming powder for
f. the primary charge, but when she pointed out the differ-
ence, he nodded. "Big grains for the big fire, small grains
for the small fire."
"Exactly."

He smiled and cocked the flashdrake. "I'm ready, am I?
How do I aim?"

"Close your left eye." She reached up to block it, but he
' pulled his head aside. "Sorry. Look down the barrel and
, keep it pointed at your target. At this range the bullet will
drop an inch or two. Compensate."

"Done." He smiled like a child playing with a new toy.
E "Brace yourself."

i"  The talon fell, and in the second before the main charge
exploded, Gena noticed how Neal's thickly muscled arm
Jlield the heavy flashdrake rock-still. Then the flashdrake
I vomited fire and smoke, and an earsplittmg roar echoed
|'"through the forest. As the thick white smoke evaporated,
||<rena saw no trace of the mushroom's cap.
||   Neal looked at the smoking flashdrake. "It has quite a
| jolt to it."

"Rik used to call that 'recoil.' It varies with how much
powder you use, and too much can make the flashdrake
explode in your hands." Her ears ringing, Gena started to
.walk down to the target area. "Poor-made imitations of
, these Dwarven handcannons have been known to kill the
r person using them."

[   Neal fell into step beside her. "Slower to use than a
H.bow, but not an arbalest." He stopped as they came to a
| circle of toadstool fragments, and squatted. Using the gun,
|[he pointed at some of the larger pieces. "Looks like I hit it
,a bit high and to the left."

;   "But you hit it on the first shot!" Gena clapped her
-hands. "You are very good."
"Or very lucky."
"Or," called Berengar from the firing line, "you have

436    Michael A. Stackpole

discovered what we did in Aurdon—these things take no
skill at all to use. This is why they are restricted from the
lower classes."

Neal stood and nodded to Berengar. "Had the Steel
Pack had these weapons, we would have swept the
Reithrese from the face of Skirren a year or two before the
Eiven crusade."

"Thank the gods there are few enough of them, and
most of those so wretched that they kill those who use
them." Berengar dropped his left hand to the hilt of his
rapier. "Those flashdrakes require no skill and bring no
honor on those who use them."

"Still, they are clearly effective." Neal looked at Gena.
"This Durriken of yours must have killed at least two of
the Haladina who took him before they killed him."

Gena shook her head and remembered how small Rik
had looked stretched out on the table at the Fisher man-
sion. "He did not shoot his assailants."

Berengar's head came up. "When we found his body,
the guns had not even been drawn from the scabbards he
had fashioned for them."

Neal's eyebrow rose. "In the time I have slept, the
Haladina have become very stealthy, it seems."

"Very." Berengar spat on the ground- "And they have
Riveren allies who provide them a safe haven in Aurdon."

"Well, we shall see about that, will we not?" Gena
smiled and cried to mediate between the two of them. She
headed off any growing argument by agreeing to let Neal
practice more with the flashdrakes while she enlisted Ber-
engar in helping her forage for some herbs to spice the
gruel she intended to prepare as their meal.

Away from Neal, Berengar could not have been more
pleasant or solicitous. He did not shy from her touch and
bantered with her effortlessly. He worked to anticipate her
needs and very much assumed the leadership role she had
expected of him. He did not shy from performing tasks
that would have been beneath his station in Aurdon, and
some of the camaraderie they had shared on the road re-
turned to their camp.

Gena knew Neal had good reason for his distance—he
had become alive again in a world that had passed him by,

Once a Hero   437

but she could not help but judge him harshly for it. His
inquisitive nature stood him in good stead in adapting, and
the varied volume and cadence of the flashdrake reports
suggested he had already begun to experiment with the
weapons. Still, his willingness and desire to learn about the
weaponry of the day mocked his resistance to let down his
guard concerning her, and that hurt.

She toyed for a second with the idea of sleeping with
Berengar, but she rejected it when she realized she would
be doing that to punish Neal- She wondered if, in the same
way bringing him back had allowed her to feel superior to
Larissa in the realm of magick, seducing Neal would allow
her to feel superior to her grandaunt. The instant that ques-
tion entered her mind, she blushed and felt ashamed. To do
such a thing for so petty a reason would dishonor her and
mock what Neal and Larissa had shared. White Neal had
been dead for five hundred years, to his mind not a day had
passed since he died thinking of Larissa.

Neal returned to the camp with the flashdrakes in their
, scabbards, fastened against the flat of his stomach. "This is
how Durriken wore them?"

Gena nodded. "He could draw them quickly and use
them while riding."

"While riding?" Neal looked at Berengar. "And you
said these required no skill."

"I stand by my statement- Weapons for old men who
can no longer use a sword, or in Durriken's case, a small
man who made good use of a weapon that extended his
reach."

Neal shrugged his way out of the leather harness hold-
ing the flashdrakes in place. "I'm thinking I'm not that
small, but I don't know if I'm too old to be using this
sword."

Berengar smiled effortlessly. "I think it is good you
have practiced with the handcannons."

Stulklim made a rude buzzing noise. "Denman idle-
speaks."

Berengar glared at the Dreel. "I have dogs that would
, not deign to take your scent, much less worry your ragged
^pelt with tooth."

438    Michael A. Stackpole

Stulklirn's eyes brightened and his lips smacked to-
gether.

Neal frowned at the Dreel, "Stulklirn, be still. My lord
Count, I was thinking I was, that you might honor me by
teaching me all that I have yet to learn about swordsman-
ship. Same as these flashdrakes are new, this rapier you
wear was not known in my time. The rapier Aarundel had
made for me still isn't familiar. If you would be willing."

Berengar nodded gladly.

Neal smiled broadly- "Shall we pad the blades?"

The count shook his head. "I won't touch you, and I
won't let you touch me." He drew his blade with a flour-
ish, then saluted Genevera. "For you, my lady."

Chapter 36

Hatred Fills
a Heart of Ice

_x

ftarfy Winter

|AA. 499

?jWy 536th Year

i/Fhe Present

f^

[6eing dead for so long must have played hob with my
obtain, because I should have seen the confrontation with
l/'Berengar coming more clearly than I did. I had been
' brought back to life to help him deal with a situation that
'.be saw as incredibly important. I understood that, but
\ given the magnitude of what I needed to understand about
my own situation, his concerns slipped a bit back in line.

I also realized that I had been dealing with him as I
•Would have the Red Tiger. While they looked very much
t^adike, they were not the same person. They shared a drive
^to accomplish their goals, to be certain, but the Red Tiger
^fead risen from poverty and slavery to revolt against the
" Reithrese. Berengar came from a noble family and seemed
to have an underlying arrogance, which he needed to sus-
|ta*n his mission- As with most people, he saw himself as the
ero of his own epic, but his arrogance made him think
it others must see him as a hero as well.

440    Michael A. Siackpole

His attitude toward the flashdrakes surprised me be-
cause I would have thought he was smart enough to see
how powerful they were. Actually, he was, but of the two
courses of action open to him, he chose the reactionary
one. By restricting the handcannons he guaranteed his peo-
ple would not be able to deal with them. He should have
embraced them, learned about them, and learned ways to
use and defeat them. An army armed with fiashdrakes
would be formidable, but knowing their weaknesses would
make them vulnerable.

For example, it struck me that these fiashdrakes would
be singularly useless when a battle was being fought in a
rainstorm. Granted, fighting under adverse conditions is
never desired, but soldiers can be trained to deal with al-
most anything. Creating a unit like the Steel Pack that
practiced moving and attacking in driving rainstorms
would allow him to destroy flashdrakers and win against
all sorts of odds.

Arrogance sometimes leads to vanity, and that often
causes an overvaluation of honor. I should know because
part of my anger at Aarundel and Lanssa in using
Genevera to bring me back to life revolved around my
pride at not having used magick for healing during my
career. Vanity, pure and simple. Granted, I had a lot to
learn about the world, but being alive definitely beat eter-
nity in a stone house in Cygestolia,

Being brought back from the dead left me with a few
questions about myseif, which was why I asked Berengar if
he would be willing to fence with me. Going into the as-
sault on Alatun, I had seen myself as old and slow and
breaking down. The magick that had revived me had not
cleared up any old scars, but it might have taken the edge
off the damage done by aging. Then again, my attitude
slowly turning positive might have done the same thing.
Either way, the result was the same—I had no idea how
good I was in comparison to the contemporary world.

Berengar appeared ready to go immediately, but I held
up a hand and stretched my legs out a little. "Lying in the
tomb left me a bit stiff." Joints popped and muscles slowly
loosened. I laughed when my right shoulder cracked like a

Once a Hero   441

dry twig under heavy tread, Berengar smiled, and Gena
winced.

I wish she had not done that. She looked too much like
her grandaunt to me, which meant I kept thinking back to
times Larissa and I had spent together, trying to remember
if I had seen that expression or heard those words before. I
did not mind drifting back into memories of Larissa, but
coming out of them hurt quite a bit. Whatever resentment 1
built from that pain I found myself directing toward
Genevera—none of which she deserved.

Just as I realized I should not judge Berengar by the Red
Tiger, I knew comparing Gena with Larissa was unfair.
Genevera was very intelligent, witty, friendly, and beauti-
ful. She compared favorably with her grandaunt, yet be-
cause Larissa was untouchable, there remained an aura of
mystery around her that held her apart from me. It left her
a creature of fantasy, and while I had seen Larissa under
gimilar circumstances to those I was experiencing with
Genevera, Gena's approachability helped distance me from

:her.

The other factor that kept a wall between us was how
Berengar acted around Gena. Though she might not have
been aware of it, I had seen enough moon-eyed warriors
chasing after women in garrison towns to know the took of
one smitten. His deference to her, respect of her, and re-
sentment of time she and I spent together told me just how
much he thought he loved her. As is true with many honor-
able men, he hid his intentions so as not to complicate our
mission, but I suspected when we returned to Aurium, he
would make a clean breast of his feelings.

Suitably stretched out, I drew my rapier from my bag-
gage, raised it in a salute to Gena as had Berengar, then
dropped into a low guard. I kept the point of my blade in
line with his chest at heart level, with my right hand and

, blade hilt at waist level, just off my right hip. The blade's
balance and slender tapering told me that the thrust was
the most important tactic in sword fighting now, but the
razored edge on the blade also suggested that it had its uses

/as well- Even so, the crushing, slashing attacks to which I

S^tad become accustomed and in which I had become ac-

;complished were clearly archaic.

442    Michael A. Stackpole

I took a quick step forward, extended, and lunged, but
Berengar parried me wide, then twisted his wrist and ri-
posted to my chest. He whipped the blade away before it
could skewer me, but he was fast and very steady. The
parry had been strong, and Berengar recovered from his
lunge before I had brought my sword back into a proper
guard.

I nodded respectfully to him. "You are very good."

"You did not come at me hard."

"That does not diminish your speed and your skill." I
raised my sword and saluted him. "Perhaps you would be
willing to instruct me in the current ways of fighting?"

The question surprised him, but after a moment's con-
sideration he consented and my lessons began immediately.
He started with forms and guards in that first session, and
over the next three weeks we progressed on up to some of
the more complicated systems of fighting. The lack of spare
rapiers meant we had to use sticks to simulate a second
sword when we tried that form, and we likewise had to
improvise bucklers from tree bark. Berengar professed a
preference for sword and dagger fighting, and I could defi-
nitely see that as likely the most common sort of swordplay
in an urban setting.

When we fenced, Berengar maintained an edge, and he
took great pride in remaining my master at swordpiay.
While he had taught me everything I knew about this new
way of fighting, he had not taught me everything he knew.
On the other hand, I think I learned a bit more than he
expected me to pick up. I knew I had not seen him fight full
out, nor had he seen all I had to offer, which made our
fencing matches exciting.

From the grove outside Jarudin, Stulklirn had taken us
directly to his normal range in Irtysh. Aarundel and I,
when Stulkhm joined us, postulated that a Dreel could ei-
ther use the Elven circus translatio or end up in any place
he knew well enough to identify inside his mind. We also
discovered we did not need the chains to travel when work-
ing through a Dreel. In the same way that Shijef had taken
us directly from Jammaq to CygestoUa, Stulklirn was able
to take us from Jarudin to Irtysh without using any of the
circuit groves along the way.

Once a Hero   443

From there we worked almost directly north. We
bought more horses and what little supplies we could con-
vince folks to surrender, then headed on our way. People
appeared concerned with our traveling toward the
Rimefields at this time of year less because of the weather
than because Tacorzi was known to extend his range in the
winter. Going north during the winter, a number of people
asserted, was akin to committing suicide.

While no one would sign on with us as a guide, every-
one was willing to share stories about Tacorzi. Descriptions
ranged from a pale-blue mukitentacled squid-thing that
waited in the snow for travelers the way an antlion am-
bushes its prey, to a ghoul with a legion of skeletal zombies
at its beck and call- The latter suited Takrakor better than
the former, but we heard about the ice-squid enough that I
began to wonder if it was not one of those bone-creatures I
had seen the Reithrese use at Alatun.

^   Ultimately we did not need a guide, because I knew
^ Cxacriy where we were going. I could not have pointed it
^'out on a map, but this close to Tacorzi and Wasp, I just
"^ knew where we were headed. Of course, knowing the crea-
ture laired in the ice caverns at the base of a smoking
mountain helped a lot, especially when we crested foothills
and saw the snow-clad mountain with a plume of gray
.ttnoke smearing the blue sky.

w

I S

^ f

i4)
•?'"<

We found the entrance to the ice cavern late in the after-
noon, so we pulled back from it and made a camp a con-
siderable distance up in a mountain valley. Not only could
I get a sense of Takrakor's presence, but some of the malev-
olence was leaking through as well. I recalled quite well the
last time I faced him, and I doubted five centuries would
have diminished his power.

• "I think we may have made a mistake, my friends." I
Hooked away from the small fire burning in our little cave
as I shared my conclusion. "Takrakor was very deadly the
last time we met. We should have had the Consilharii send
a troop of wizards to root him out."




Berengar frowned at that idea. "I hardly think a power-
^|fol sorcerer would willfully lair in a hole in the ice. I agree
gtfaat caution is warranted, but we are not as weak a group
Itt you might think. You and I are formidable warriors, and

444    Michael A Stackpole

the Dreel is very strong. Lady Genevera is a magick user of
unparalleled skill in my experience. Could nor this malevo-
lence you feel be nothing more than his residual hatred of
you for killing him?"

"Berengar does make sense on that point, Neal."

"He does, Gena, but then we have to wonder what this
Tacorzi is and how Takrakor got here."

Berengar nodded. "I agree, Neal, these are questions we
need to answer. Let us reconnoiter the ice cavern tomor-
row. If we cannot destroy the creature we find there—if
there is any creature there—we will retreat and summon
more help. With the Dreel we can have more people here in
a day or two."

I frowned for a moment because Berengar had ad-
vanced the course of action 1 saw as most logical—if noth-
ing else we had to see what was there. "I agree." I leaned
over and pulled the saddlebag with the flashdrakes in it
into my lap. "If you do not mind, Gena, I will take these
with me tomorrow."

"And I thought you more confident in your abilities
with a rapier, Neal." Berengar shook his head. "You do
not need those things."

"No disrespect to you as a swordmaster, Berengar, but
I will bring these for one very simple reason."

"And that is?"

I smiled. "I had no idea what they were when I first saw
them. I'm thinking that if Takrakor is behind the Tacorzi
legend, up here he'll not have seen them either. And that
means, dishonorable or not, these might be just enough to
surprise or distract him so we can get away from him."

The next day dawned bitter cold, with the sky so blue
that it might have been an ocean suspended over our heads.
No snow had fallen in the night, and the wind had scoured
the snowscape down to the hard crust. The snow's frozen
skin supported us for a second with each step, then gave
way, plunging us knee-deep in snow. We barked our shins
on the crust with the next step, repeating the whole cycle
with monotonous regularity and fair discomfort-

The crunch of snow under my feet, and the wind's cold

Once a Hero   445

kiss where my scarf and hat left the skin near my eyes
open, reminded me of my days as a youth in the Roclaws.
As a child, I had always welcomed snow because it trans-
formed the world into a wonderful playground where forts
could be built and snowball wars fought. Growing into
adulthood, I had seen another side to winter and did not
relish the expeditions mounted to find survivors of villages
swept away by avalanches. The images of stiff and frozen
corpses perfectly preserved danced through my brain, and
all too many of them wore my face.

The round tunnel led down through the ice at a fairly
sharp angle, but cracks and ripples in the surface made
climbing down not as difficult as I might have thought at
first. Wearing the flashdrake scabbard over my heavy coat
did hinder me somewhat, but the tunnel leveled out quickly
enough. It pushed on through blue shadows for a good two
hundred yards. Down here, where very little sunlight could

- penetrate, the walls glowed azure and made our vaporous
^'breaths a light-blue fog.

E' - Down inside the tunnel I felt no movement in the air,
^•' which eased the chill only a little. Where my breath plumed
1 .-up from within the scarf, the vapor managed to freeze on
the forelock that had escaped my woolen cap. I had to be
careful when blinking my eyes lest they freeze shut as well.
Inside my mittens my fingers felt numb, but I kept moving

• them to keep them limber. Feeling colder than a corpse in
my feet, hands, and buttocks, I moved deeper into that blue
hell.

I stopped just beyond where the tunnel widened into a
huge ice cavern. Though rendered in ice, many of the deco-
rations and much of the architecture came from Jammaq,
Columns of ice had been sculpted into bones, and countless
. tortured faces stared back at me through glassy walls.
What I took to be gravel crunched underfoot, but when I
looked down, all I could see was the pale ivory of bone
fragments.

My companions entered the chamber and had the wis-
dom to spread out on either side, with Gena and Berengar
^- to my left and Stulklirn to my right. We all stared at the
^thing lurking in the center of the cavern bowl. It hunched
3wn on a hillock knitted of bones and had bodies in vari-

446    Michael A. Stackpole

ous states of disrepair scattered about it. Unblemished by
rot because of the cold, the bodies looked more like dolls
that had been rough-used by children at play than once-
living creatures.

The thing in the middle—Tacorzi seemed to suit it more
than Takrakor—raised its half-fleshed head and gave me a
diamond-studded smile. "I knew you would come, Neal."
A skeletal hand clicked bony fingers against the hilt of the
knife still borne in a harness on its chest. "I knew you had
been consigned to the same limbo as had I. Now we will
both be free."

It raised the skeletal left arm, and I saw both flesh and
tattered muscles dangle like fringe from the iimb. The bony
hand probed the gaping wound, the ancient, splintered
wound, in its chest. "You killed me as I killed you, Neal.
Your Elven friends saved you even as my Mistress saved
me. I have waited very long for this, very long, very
long. . . ."

I studied the charnei house surroundings for a moment.
"I think I had the better of the resting places."

"Utility is preferable to comfort." The skeletal creature
stared at me as if trying to catalog the differences between
us. "Here I nest next to the bosom of my goddess, still her
servant despite her cruel judgment of me."

"Your people are gone, and your empire is not even a
memory in the minds of Men. You should have given up
long ago."

The monster continued to peer at me. "The memories
of your despair and pain still please me."

I shivered, and not from the cold. "Why did you do that
to me? Why did you rape my brain? Why not take the
sword and be done with it?"

Tacorzi's jaw dropped and quivered in a ghoulish imita-
tion of laughter. "Do you not know? Khiephnaft must be
won in combat or freely given to another. Back then, I
could not win it by force of arms, but now I would have no
such problem."

As Tacorzi spoke, its lethargy fell away. It heaved itself
up and came upright, but not on legs. From the point
where its pelvis should have been, I saw only a skeletal
body woven of pelvises and leg bones. The creature, its

Once a Hero   447

leathery flesh creaking as the body shifted, rose up, and I
i   saw the hillock upon which it had rested was really an

enormous skeletal simulacrum of a snake's body.
^'      Worse yet, curving up and over its shoulders, bony ten-
tacles wove back and forth akin to cobras swaying to a
^ minstrel's flute tune. Four of the eight ended in animal
^ „ skulls that snapped their jaws at us and flashed fangs. Two,
^' a wolf and a polar bear, still maintained part of their pelts.
^ The other two were bare of flesh, and I was certain one was
^ that of a wolf. The other, by Stulklirn's snarled reaction,
^t-/ could have been from a Dree!.

Hf^    The other four tentacles plunged down into the tangle
of bodies lying around Tacorzi's coils. With a harsh snap-
ping sound, they bored into holes in the small of the backs
of some corpses. Bodies lurched to their feet- Shambling
forward, the zombi quartet oriented on Berengar and
Gena. The biting heads turned their attention to Stulklim.

I shook my mittens free of my hands—the mittens dan-
Ill gled from cords tied to my wrists—and drew my sword.
|^ "Leave them, it's me you want and my dagger back that I
pwant."

^   The half-dead thing shook its head. "You, I already
ll^know how to kill." He brought his hands up to his face,
H"then slashed them down and away. "I have been a long
' time in improving the spell. You will die nowV

Beginning as a burning spark, the spell he had once
before used to destroy me shot out at me. I knew I had to
move, had to escape it, but even as I thought about dodg-
ing to my right, the spell shifted to track me. As it closed
die distance between us, it grew from a spark to a burning
cross. I heard it sizzling through the air and actually began
to feel cheated out of my second attempt at life.

Suddenly Stulklirn dove in front of me, and the spell hit
him full force in the chest. The Dreel howled in pain and
far flashed into an acrid, cloying smoke. As he went down,
curling in on himself, I leaped up over his rolling body and
slashed the rapier through the tentacle with the bear's
head. The skull flew free and shattered on the ground.

Gena gestured at the ragged corpse nearest her, and its
•threadbare clothes immediately ignited into flame. At once
\S3cin humanoid body collapsed, and the tentacle reared back

448    Michael A. Stackpole

as if a viper coiling to strike. The body melted and spread
out, a burning mass of putrid rot and old bones, while
Tacorzi repeatedly jammed the burning end of the tentacle
into the cavern floor to put the fire out.

The scent of burning flesh and Dreel fur assaulted me,
bringing to the chamel cavern the scent it should have had
from the beginning. Gena readied another spell and cast it
at Tacorzi as Berengar sliced another zombi free of its bony
lifeline. I beheaded the Dreel tentacle, but the two wolves
got my hip and shoulder on the left side. Their assault
slackened for a moment as Tacorzi's magick met and ex-
ploded Gena's spell, and had I not been wearing thick win-
ter gear, they would have torn me open.

As I curled my left arm around the tentacle biting me at
the shoulder and started to cut at Tacorzi with my rapier, I
saw Stulklirn roll to his feet. He bellowed a challenge
tinged with pain, then raised his paws, crossed them, and
slashed them apart in imitation of what Tacorzi had done.
A reddish-yellow spark shot from his furred paws and spi-
raled in at Tacorzi. It struck the monster in a shower of
sparks, sending a shudder through Tacorzi's body. A sec-
ond later I severed the tentacle and it fell to pieces around

me.

"Magick I make I can unmake!" Tacorzi cackled. His
hands began all manner of arcane motions even as a cruci-
form design on his chest began to darken and run with
rotting flesh. The tentacle Gena had previously bumed bat-
tered her back against the cavern wall. As she slumped to
the floor, one of the zombies managed to jump Berengar,
taking him down, while the wolf tentacle gnawing at my
hip managed to pull me down.

Stulklirn crushed the wolf skull with one swat of his
right paw, then crouched over me. "My magick kill will."

"Not if he unmakes it." I slapped the Dreel on the
shoulder. "Circle him. Think of Jarudin."

Casting my sword aside, I stood and began to run at
Tacorzi. I assumed the sight of me running unarmed at him
would be quite a distraction and limit his ability at concen-
trating on his unmaking of the quartering spell. His jaw did
drop open and his hand motions slackened just a bit, but

S

•-"-.'-

Once a Hero   449

«fen his curiosity at my actions did not make him stop his
mrork.

I drew both flashdrakes, cocked the talons, and thrust
the handcannons at him. The fleshy half of his face raised
ap eyebrow, but he saw no threat. I assumed that was be-
cause he did not know what they were, but part of me
feared he knew it was because, already being dead, he
could not be killed again.

I pulled the triggers.

;   One ball exploded his left hand, spraying finger and
^ wrist bones around before it blew through ribs and shat-
tered the shoulder blade on its way out. The other ball
..shattered the Reithrese corpse-wizard's jaw. Glittering like
dewdrops in sunlight, diamond teeth spun through the air.

-" Knowing how a toothache had destroyed his concentration
: before, I hoped the horror at having part of his death re-
I played would cause him all sorts of problems.

';   Surrounding the both of us, a black, white, and brindle
; light pattern began and ended in the outline of a Dreel.
.Dropping the flashdrakes, I grabbed a flailing bone tentacle
.and heaved on it. Tacorzi spilled forward off his coils.

•Hauling for all I was worth—despite the sharp pain in
Bshoulder and hip—I pulled Tacorzi along with me as I dove
^iinto the Dreel and the world of the Elven circus translatio.
^   I do not know how long it actually took for us to com-
iplete the journey to the grove east of Jarudin. We passed
^through hills and mountains, lakes, towns, and vales, as we
I flew through that opposite-landscape. I saw no one, as 1
H^faad before, but my attention remained focused on Tacorzi.
H ''"I do not know if anyone saw us as a ghost on our journey,
I:; but I had no doubt that if someone had, a bard would be
H^amging about the sight soon enough.

H';" At some point during the journey it occurred to me that
||:lfae premise upon which I had based my plan could have
^•jbeen wrong. Before my death I would have been willing to
^ttust my hunches, but that had gotten me dead once before.
|||if this journey did not Idll Tacorzi, I had managed to trans-
pecate him from the frozen north to within a day's ride of
rudin. I had no idea how fast he could travel, configured
he was, but inflicting that sort of danger on the kin of

450    Michael A. Stackpole

folks I'd known generations before struck me as a poor
way to announce my return to the land of the living.

As we arrived in the grove, I realized the one huge mis-
take I had made. Having dived into the Dreel, I dived out
at the other end of the trip. I landed on my left shoulder,
sending pain through me, then I rolled and kept rolling. I
rolled on out of the grove and in doing so saved my life-

Tacorzi did not land in much better shape than I did,
but I was much smaller than he was. As his body came imo
the grove, it bounced off the ground and slammed into
trees on the other side of the grove. That collision sheered
limbs from both trees and Tacorzi. Bits and pieces or bones
pelted me as they flew out from between the trees. Those
that hit me tumbled on after leaving my coat stained with
white powder, and a blizzard of bone dust filled the grove
itself-

1 let things settle for a minute and made certain I had
not been hurt. Because I had no indication Tacorzi Still
lived, I got to my feet and walked back to the grove. A
black puddle, looking like the corrupted yolk of a giant egg
lay near the edge of the tree circle. Stulklirn walked around
the perimeter, shaking white dust from his coat. His fur
now bore a white cross on his chest, but he seemed not to
have noticed the change.

I shrugged off my coat and massaged my shoulder.
"Are you hurt, Stulklirn?"

The Dreel shook his head. "Hurt I am not."

"Are you certain?" I rubbed my chest reflexively. "I
know what that spell did to me a long time ago."

"Dreel-friend you are, so know this you may." He
pointed at what had once been Takrakor. "The gods made
men to kill men. To the Dreel for prey Bok gave sorcerers."
He exposed his teeth in a feral grin. "Magick they have,
magick we are. This is why lifeblack has pooled."

Chapter37

The Hero as a Man

_x

Early Winter
A.S. 499
The Present

More than the stitch in her side and the throbbing pain on
her cheek, Gena felt the cold as she slowly awakened. She
found herself slumped in a corner between an ice wall and
the cavern floor. The fire her spell had made out of a zombi
still guttered a bit, holding the azure shadows at bay, but it
produced little heat. She shoved her hands into her mittens
again, then found her hat and made sure to tuck the numb
rips of her ears beneath the woolen band when she pulled
it on.

Even though her toes and parts of her legs felt numb,
she was able to move around. Her ribs ached on the right
side, and her right eye had already begun to swell half-
dosed, but she resisted using a diagnostic spell on herself.
She knew her injuries were not bad and that the greatest
threat to her welfare came from the cold. Her magick could
do something to ward off the cold, but if she used all her

•j^trength healing herself, she might freeze to death after-

'Ward.

452    Michael A. Stackpole

She staggered to her feet and felt surprised when the
little cry of pain she uttered echoed back Co her through the
silence. Am I alone? Panic rippled through her, but she
fought it down. "This is no time to be jumping to any sort
of conclusions about anything."

Gena looked first toward where the thing had been. She
shivered, but less from the cold than from the memory of
what Takrakor had become- She had always used the name
Takrakor as something that defined evil in her mind, but
Tacorzi superseded the worst. Takrakor, as she had heard
in many stories, had been ambitious, and that she could
understand. Tacorzi, on the other hand, remained alive
while dead, maintained by a hatred for a Man he himself
had slain five centuries previously. It was malignant and
insane.

She saw neither the creature nor Neal, and that worried
her. The Dreel appeared to be gone as well, so she drifted
off to her left toward a mound in the midst of a bone-
strewn mire. The stink of rotted meat almost overwhelmed
her as she approached, but the struggling gasp for breath
that emanated from the twisted lump in the center drew
her on.

Berengar lay in the midst of what had once been a
zombi or two. Viscous black fluids saturated his clothes.
Deep down, where great rents had been opened in his
clothes to his flesh and beyond, she saw his blood frozen
bright red in his wounds. A bone-spear poked through the
left leg of his thick leather trousers. One of his ears hung
half bitten off, his right shoulder looked dislocated, and his
left eye had more red than white in it.

Without a second thought Gena cast a diagnostic spell
on him and got some added information. Berengar's nose
had been broken, ribs bruised, and one kidney lacerated-
She dared not move him because where his blood had not
yet clotted, it had frozen, which was likely the only reason
he had not yet bled to death from some of the slashes in-
flicted by the zombies and the flaying whip of a bone tenta-
cle.

She eased herself down onto her knees and concen-
trated. She mentally listed his injuries and determined for
herself which ones were more important and which were

•                             Once a Hem   453

,f

...fleas so. Once she had things in a workable order, she set
^^Aout casting the spells that would bring him as close to

faocrioning as possible without jeopardizing her ability to
'ifaelp them survive in the cold.

„'," Her first spell gently lifted the body from the ground
S%LABd sealed it m an evergreen cocoon. Brighter bits of green
'""' '" Worked along the body, deep within the cocoon, slowly

tfaaftmg along the cuts and gashes like inchworms. In short
^Qcder, with a very low energy expenditure on her part,

Gena's spell repaired all the holes in Berengar's flesh. She
I'lpecifically did not have the glowworms leech blood from
life bruises, because his body would do that naturally after
^ number of days. The spell could have done that, but it
^•would have been more expensive in terms of her strength.
^'  The damage to his kidney concerned her the most after
ttoaking sure he would not leak anymore. As nearly as she
.could tell, it had been a puncture wound from a zombi
^weapon. She did not worry so much about blood poisoning
I'ftom it as she did about making certain that all the little
pUood vessels were repaired in the organ. The spell she so-
elected for repairing it took more time than the glowworms
l^lind cost her far more in terms of energy, but really just
Is.taaployed smaller, smarter versions of the glowworms to
|A» the job.

^.   Once that was taken care of, she used a spell to purge,
I'llprify and heighten production of blood. From there she
^repaired his leg so he could move, put his ear back to-
", pether, and worked his arm back into the socket. That still

teft him his bruises, broken nose, ribs, and bloodshot eye,

bat she had no more strength to use and he had already

farted to come around.

•^  Berengar winced as he eased himself into a sitting posi-
^tiDn. "Gena, your face, you have a cut and a bruise."

She nodded. "And your nose has a new bump, and your
;^tA eye will swell fully shut in no time."
^  He tried to laugh, then held his ribs. "I have other inju-
' a, I see."

Gena smiled wealdy. "I was able to fix many things, but
ine will have to heal on their own."
. "Where is Neal?"
'"I don't know."

454    Michael A. Stackpole

"Did he abandon us?"

The disgust in Berengar's voice surprised Gena. "I don't
know if he did or not, but I have noticed that Tacorzi is no
longer here."

"And the dagger?"

"Gone as well." Gena looked around in the gloom.
"Neat's sword and the flashdrakes are on the ground, I
cannot tell if the handcannons have been used or not."

The count looked off toward the center of the cavern,
then shook his head. "So that thing was a Reithrese?"

She shrugged. "It may once have been- It certainly
seemed to know Neal."

"And now he's run off and it's chasing him." Berengar
gingerly got to his feet.

"I don't know that Neal ran from the thing." She
pointed oft toward where Tacorzi had sat. "The flash-
drakes are nearer the center than they are the way out of
here. Neal and Stulklirn and Tacorzi are )ust gone."

"I suppose you're right. I think we should collect our
things, leave this place, and get back to where we left our
supplies. We need fire and food and shelter, none of which
we have here." He groaned and wobbled a bit, but man-
aged to stay upright. "Feeling as I do now, I do not believe
I want to know what you had to fix."

"Agreed."

Working together, they managed to make the trek from
Tacorzi's lair to the cavern in which they had spent the
previous evening. Gena made a fire and started melting
snow into water for tea while Berengar shucked off his
clothes and wrapped himself in blankets. His nose and ribs
clearly hurt him, and the bruises on his body were as mul-
ticolored as they were oddly shaped, but he bore his
wounds stoically. His insistence that she drink and eat be-
fore he did marked his concern for her, but he did not
protest too much when she volunteered to take the first
watch.

"A couple of hours, then you will sleep. Promise me."

Gena did and tossed some more wood onto the fire. She
figured their meagre supply would last through the night
and into the next day. By then they should be able to travel
to more hospitable environs. She smiled and tried to think

, ,\                               Once a Hero   455

"UK'

nbout more pleasant places to be, both to keep her awake
^'.,j(Bd to keep her mind from wondering if Neat actually had
^•' •- ftboadoned them. Her efforts failed in both things, and ex-
^ (wasted, she succumbed to sleep before she had a chance to
^ swse Berengar.

Gena woke with a start when she realized she was
sweating. Coming awake, she remembered that she was
tlUpposed to be tending the fire. Afraid it tiad gone out
"iA:1-- she dozed, she looked at it and found it burning
ly. That fact and her feeling very warm slowly came
her in her sleep-besotted brain. What welded them
a single, coherent thought was seeing Neal squatting
s the fire from her.
"How are you, Gena?"

'*Hot and sore." She looked from him to Berengar and
i over to where Stulklim lay curled around a huge pile
; wood. "Where did that come from?"
"Outside Jarudin."
She shook her head. "But it would take months to get

•e and back.*' She glanced at the unconscious Dreel.
i."

•*We would have been back sooner, but Stulklirn
ated to catch a nap after the initial trip. Gave me time to
her the wood."

"What happened? Where is Tacorzi?"
Neal shrugged as he rubbed his hands together.
t Tacorzi is dead."
"How?"

The Man frowned. "Actually, he always was dead, I
it let him decay. Walking through the cold, I remembered
dies I'd seen trapped in avalanches and in the mountains
tfae Reithrese storm. Frozen, they didn't decay. From
l^omething Tacorzi said, I assumed he came up here to stop
JVs body from falling apart."

Gena laughed before a twinge in her side stopped her.
Us plan didn't work very well."
Neal nodded and gave her a grin that helped ease her

"Indeed, he did go to pieces. He built himself up
tier body the way he did for his brother, but Takrakor

456    Michael A. Siackpole

only had bones and corpse-crumbs to work with- Anyway,
Stulklim and I dragged him south, and five hundred years
of decay caught up with him fast."

"The Dreel is unharmed?'* Gena pointed to the white
cross on his chest. "He was hit by a very powerful spell."

"Tacorzi meant that spell for me. I guess it didn't affect
the Dreel that much."

Gena could tell Neal was being deceptive, but her brain
felt too fuzzy to figure out why or where he was hiding
something. That conclusion resonated against Berengar's
earlier suspicion that they'd been abandoned. She wanted
to dismiss her unease instantly—for Neal's return and his
thoughtfulness at bringing the wood spoke to his loyalty to
his companions—but something stopped her.

Neal tossed another log on the fire, and a shower of
sparks obscured him for a moment. "Go back to sleep,
Gena. Tomorrow, when we are all set, we will go to
Jarudin. I have Wasp, and with it Cleaveheart will once
again be mine."

Gena felt much better when she awoke again. Berengar
had regained consciousness before she had, and between
them, he and Nea! had loaded all of their supplies on the
horses. While Neal tied Gena's bedroll behind Spirit's sad-
dle, Gena used magick to heal the last of Berengar's inju-
ries, then gratefully partook in a breakfast of tea, traveler's
bread, and some currants Neal had brought from the forest
outside Jarudin-

The journey through Stulklirn to Jarudm passed so
quickly for her that she wondered if she had somehow
fallen asleep. She decided she had not, but that her
thoughts had moved slowly while her body moved so fast.
That was just as well, because she had allowed herseif to
brood about Neal and the fear his absence had planted in
her.

Since before she could remember remembering, her
grandfather and grandaunt had sung Nea!'s praises. She
could recall when she became conscious of the fact that
Neal was a Man, not an Elf, and that fact made him much
more of an exotic and romantic figure in her mind. It made

Once a Hero   457

lum unique and different and filled her with a desire to
Icnow all she could about him. For almost two hundred
fifty years, when her studies and travels had allowed it, she"
had studied Nea! and the trail of stories he had left in his
wake.

Truths about herself and Neal and their relationship
began to dawn on her slowly. She saw that she had viewed
him as a hero first and a Man second, which was not sur-
prising, given how her kin had presented Neal to her. In
•eeing him as a hero, she filled in any gaps in his life, any
details she could not learn, with things suitably heroic. His
Humanity, which lay at the core of everything he did, be-
came lost behind the legend he had become.

Besides not taking his humanity into account, she real-
ized she had been expecting a lot more from him than he
^.^kad delivered, and that caused some resentment on her
part. She had spent centuries learning about him, dreaming
about him, and drawing conclusions about him. In her
'mind she had played out fantasies and adventures in which
they had been able to travel together. She had already de-
|F,cided how he would react to her, and her musings built one
^ en another to fashion a whole relationship that Neal was
presently not living up to.




The fact that Neal knew nothing of her imagined rela-
tionship with him, and therefore could not react properly
to it, had not occurred to her until now. In her fantasies
^feal never would have abandoned her. He would have
lorn Tacorzi apart with his bare hands, then would have
tended to her injuries with the same facility he had shown
.in lulling the Reithrese monster. In truth Neal had not
Abandoned her, but had returned after destroying Tacorzi,
Set the fact that he had not done it in the way she would
cave imagined him doing it left doubt in her mind and
^ipoom for distrust.

She felt uneasy in allowing herself even a touch of dis-
gust about Neal, but she acknowledged that she had no
i4ea what he was thinking. His initial anger with her made
lease, but he calmed down and seemed to accept his place
their quest. At least that was how she saw it, but she

"ited to know how he saw it. Was he just an adjunct to
igar's quest, a companion who would facilitate the

458   Michael A. Stackpole

completion of their mission, or did he have his own
agenda? And if he did, what sort of agenda would survive
five centuries in the grave?

Her musings ended when they arrived in the grove a
day's ride from Jarudin. Her horse's hooves kicked up a lot
of bone dust as he trotted on into the circle of trees. She
briefly recalled Neal's explanation of what had happened
to Tacorzi, which is why she reined her horse away from
the black circle within which all the grass had died. She
urged her mount on out of the circle, then swung from the
saddle. She caught a stirrup with her hand and managed to
stay on her feet even though her legs wanted to collapse.

Berengar rode up beside her and looked down with sur-
prise. "Come on, there are still a couple of hours of day-
light. We can make headway on the journey to the capital."

Neal came over on Scurra and stopped directly in Ber-
engar's path. "We can leave tomorrow."

"No, the sooner we get there, the sooner we can be in
Aurdon with Cleaveheart and end all this. If we delay,
more people might die."

Neal hunched forward, resting both hands on the sad-
dle pommel. "Son, if we push on today, I will die. I'm
tired. I'm stopping." He pointed off to the west. "If you
want to ride on to Jarudin, we'll meet you there."

"Fine, give me the dagger."

"I don't think so."

"What?"

Neal straightened back up again, and Gena got the im-
pression he was not as tired as he had made himself out to
be. "To you this dagger is nothing but an artifact that is the
key to a puzzle you need to solve. To me it's a weapon I've
used for years. It's mine, and I'm not giving it over to you
just because you want to ride fast to the capital."

Berengar dropped a hand to the hilt of his sword. "You
might wish to rethink your decision."

"Unlikely." Neal nodded once, and the Dreei swatted
Berengar from his saddle. The count's horse bolted for-
ward as Berengar crashed to the ground. He started to
come up, but Stulklim pressed him back down to the earth
with a paw.

"You foul coward!"

Once a Hero   459

Neal laughed. "You are fatigued, my lord Count, and
' not thinking clearly. Rest with us here and you will see
tfaings clearly in the morning."

Gena was pleased to see that Berengar appeared to be
in, a better humor in the morning. He rose slowly and
moved as if a bit achy, then straightened up and walked
almost normally when he noticed the Dreel shadowing his
•every move. He bowed to Gena and Neal, then spoke to
itbem in a solemn voice.

?;  "Please, I beg forgiveness for my actions last night.
I^F. . ." He hesitated as if finding words were not easy.
||'"My family is in jeopardy. I realize now that I had always
looped for a simple solution to all this business, but it has
l^bccome very complex, from Durriken's death to your res-
H;lttrrection and our Journey to the north. We started in the
I^Spring and here it is the winter. I want to be back with my
^jfemily and let them know I have—we have—succeeded in
graving them. All this is urgent to me, and I lack perspec-
inve"

Sj^HlrC.

Neal nodded. "Apology accepted. I understand why
W want this to be over soon. Believe me when I tell you
at because I started the trouble, I want to see it through
the finish as much as you do."

They breakfasted in silence mostly, then saddled up and
xded out. Gena knew she could still use another day of
it, but Berengar's urgency infected her and left her impa-
at to be gone. Stulklirn led the way and Berengar fol-
»ed him. Gena and Neal hung back a bit and
^casionally lost sight of their companions.

Neal studied the landscape and shook his head. "This
)ks so much as it was when I first rode here with your
ndfather, yet the edges of this forest have been nibbled
ay. Back then the last half of the journey came within
precincts of the forests." He pointed to the scattered
as and the milling herds dotting the rolling meadows.
> humans in Ispar owned farms—they were alt slaves on
hrese plantations."
."Except the Haladina."

460    Michael A. Stackpole

"True, they were mercenaries and were very loyal to the
Reithrese."

The wide road leading toward the capital impressed
Nea! when they started traveling on it. Heading in toward
the city, they found the route became more populated, and
they passed through a number of small villages that existed
solely to serve the traffic in- and outbound from Jarudin.
They took a meal in one during the early afternoon, then
pushed on hard and reached the capital at dusk.

At Berengar's insistence they rode directly to the Impe-
rial palace and demanded an audience with the emperor.
The guards protested, but one of them went off anyway
and returned quickly with orders to admit them and escort
them to the Reithrese tower.

While other soldiers took their horses away, an even
dozen imperial guardsmen marched them into the tower.
To Gena the tower seemed unchanged from her earlier
visit. At the sight of it Neal grew quiet, and when he
crossed the threshold, he pulled his cloak tightly about
himself.

Gena gently touched him on the shoulder. "What is
wrong?"

He shook his head. "This was never a pleasant place
when I was alive, but now it seems so ... dead. I guess a
lot of things are beginning to sink in concerning the pas-
sage of time. Before I saw this tower this way, I could deny
this Jarudin was the Jarudin I had known. Now . . ."

"But you saw how much my grandfather and grand-
mother had changed."

"Yes, but I quickly got past that and was communicat-
ing with the people inside their bodies. At their, cores they
had not changed that much, so I found my old friends
therein. I can't explain it."

"You don't have to."

"Thank you."

The guards ushered them into what had been the
chapel. All of the dm and debris had been cleared from it
since Gena had last been there. Torches burned atop porta-
ble stands, and the emperor himself stood in front of the
magickal seal- He looked tired to Gena's eyes, but he exe-
cuted a bow flawlessly. "Welcome, my guests."




Once a Hero 461

^'- , Berengar perfunctorily returned the bow. "We have
^ brought to you Neal Roclawzi. He has come to recover his
sword, Cleaveheart."

>* "Oh, has he?" The emperor looked from Berengar to
^Neal and back again. "You are trying to tell me this

is

fi-hv    1   ~sr   •  i    ••-^   f      T        i-   i     —       *     --

^Neal. Knight-Defender of the Empire."
^  Neal raised an eyebrow. "I would have thought my
^tierm in that office would have expired by now."
I''   "It should have, but Beltran the Great was sentimental
^and never replaced Neal."

|','   Berengar's nostrils flared. "He is Neal. He destroyed
^tacorzi to recover the dagger that is the key to this ward."
'  "If that thing is dead, I am in your debt." Hardelwick
liled slyly. "Our gratitude does not, however, extend to
ving you Cleaveheart."

"What!" Berengar looked ready to explode, and only
yNeal's grabbing the back of his tunic stopped him from
jpeaping forward to throttle the emperor, "How can you
pdeny Neal his sword?"

g  The emperor folded his arms- "I would not deny Neal
tibis sword, but what proof have I that this man is a hero
|*ho perished five centuries ago? For all I know, this is
psome thieving wizard you found who has the expertise nec-
^ftssary to defeat these wards. If we discover the sword
^Oeaveheart in there, you will be asking me to turn an im-
^rtant piece of imperial history over to you. I have no
sire to do that."
"You can't do that!"
"Oh, Berengar, I certainly can. I am the emperor, after

Neal nodded. "He does have a point."
'Thank goodness one of you sees reason."
Gena frowned. "Forgive me. Highness, but you said
3U would turn the blade over to Neal, and we have told
u this is Neal. What would it take to convince you that
s Man is, in reality, Neal Roclawzi?"
The emperor stroked his jaw with his right hand. "In-
esting question, that one."

Neal held up his left hand and showed the back of it to
.; emperor. "I received this scar in this very chamber." He
Stinted to the sword frozen in the stone at their feet. "The

462 Michael A. Stackpole

last Reithrese emperor burned my gauntlet from me, which
is how I became scarred and how he died."

Hardelwick waved that story away. "That is a common
tale, sir."

Gena stepped forward. "You know the stories about
Neal. You know them all. Ask him about something no one
else knows. Ask him something that only Neal would
know."

"You could have instructed him."

"It would have taken more than four months to give
him the sort of knowledge that you have of him." Gena
smiled carefully. "Besides, I give you my word that this
man has not been instructed by me or anyone else in the
story of Neal's life."

"The word of an Elf. Your willingness to make an oath
like that does count for a great deal." The emperor
frowned and crossed his bony arms over his chest- "Very
well, I will try this little game."

Neal opened his hands. "I will answer if 1 can."

"Of that I have no doubt." Hardelwick's eyes glittered
wetly in the nickering torchlight. "You killed Tashayul in
the Roclaws, yet no tale exists that speaks about how you
did it. There is no credible story about your battle with
him."

Neal nodded. "It wasn't worth one."

"Tashayul dies and his empire begins to crumble and
you say his death was not worth a story?" The emperor
frowned. "I would find this hard to believe, but I have
heard rumors of how he died. My question is this: what did
you use to kill him?"

Neal laughed aloud. "That is your question?"

"It is."

Berengar clutched at Neal's left sleeve. "Do you know
it? Can you answer it?"

Nea! nodded.

The emperor bowed his head. "Your answer, then."

Neal laughed again. "As you wish. To kill Tashayut, I
used beavers."

Chapter38

Bittersweet,
the Hero's Reward

X

Tinier

|^.499
IllEw Present
^ 536th Year

•^Berengar's grip on my sleeve tightened. "Beavers' Are you

•^fasane? Beavers?"

^y^: He looked stricken, and Gena suddenly seemed to think

^l?l»ad gone mad. Only the emperor had not changed his

||tiiBtpression. "Please, explain your answer."

^,. I nodded and slipped my arm from Berengar's grasp. "I

J-feught against Tashayul when I was sixteen years old, and I
Cjmd hurt him. I had no idea how badly until years later, but
a|@rt him I had. He left his troops in the field and retreated
^t,^?Keith for healing. Aarundel and I did not attempt to
"^ follow him and headed east instead. Over the next three
attars we watched as his Reithrese army conquered Cenri-
»!», Ispar, Barkol, and Irtysh. That brought him to the
wdaws."

I glanced up unconsciously at Tashayul's image above
**When he returned to battle, he wore huge, heavy ar-
and appeared to be almost twice as large as he had

464 Michael A. Stackpole

been when I fought him. I never saw him outside his armor
—which is not unusual, given that I only saw him in bat-
tle—and he appeared as deadly as he had been when we
fought. He was winning his empire rather easily and had
even started the construction on Jarudm so it would be his
capital-

"About the only thing Aarundel and I noticed as we
wandered before and behind his army, was that he had his
best engineers with him rather than off building Jarudm
here. They organized work parties that created wonderful
wooden bridges, to be replaced with stone bridges as soon
as possible. That seemed quite logical because the bridges
allowed him to get troops across rivers quickly. We
thought that was his reason for building them until we saw
one bridge built on the site of a ford where the water was
no more than ankle deep."

I frowned. "We went into the Roclaws ahead of his
army and made our way to my brother's court- He started
organizing, and I set out to do anything possible to slow
down the Reithrese advance. Because the mountains are
split by passes that have been carved out by rivers, I knew
his engineers would have a lot of work. Given that
Tashayul appeared to be looking for a spring offensive, I
had the late fall and winter to prepare.

"Aarundel, some trappers, and I got ourselves a num-
ber of beaver families and transplanted them from down
below to some of the higher mountain areas. We induced
them to build dams that would catch the winter runoff.
That would leave our rivers running low, so the engineers
would build bridges meant to handle a lesser flow. They,
both the beavers and the engineers, did what we expected,
which put the Reithrese where we wanted them."

Walking around toward the marble disk sunk in the
floor, I squatted near it. "We opened the highest dam,
which poured water down into the next one, and so on.
The runoff it had taken two months to collect drained
down into the canyons in a matter of three days. Tashayul
just happened to be trapped in a canyon when the wall of
water hit. In his oversized armor he sank like a stone, and
his body was recovered far downstream."

Once a Hero   465

'.'•   ^ Aetcngar slipped his superior mask into place. "Then
;',. yon didn't actually kill him, as the stories say."

^     "Actually, I did. When we first fought, I'd cut his spine,
ViSflAc lower part of his body did not work except when
.'fkllW>8*cfe was used to augment his body. That's why he was
°^"jB(»pS^ when he came back—his brother, Takrakor, had
^P,"jgasrtcd a metal skeleton that he fitted to Tashayul. When a
i-^JttlpU Was used on it, Tashayul could move normally. Unfor-
^Innately for him, Tashayul could do nothing by way of
^^Usting magick, so his metal skeleton weighed him down

* he drowned. I'd inflicted a wound in our fight that
i. four years to kill him, which was in keeping with a
phecy that he would die at the hand of someone twenty

•s old. He did."

Hardelwick stared hard at me, and I met his dark-eyed
ze without flinching. His eyes half-closed, he nodded. "I
cept that explanation as the truth."

Gena looked at him- "Does it match the story you had
out Tashayul's death?"

I smiled. "He had no story about Tashayul's death. The
Sy people who knew about it were Reithrese, and they
as not about to start singing of how their leader
owned. The people of the Roclaws did not celebrate it
&er, because it was hardly the sort of heroic deed they
^3q»ected out of me. The Reithrese just pulled back to their
pa^erial borders and waited until a successor to Tashayul
ftd been selected."

^The emperor nodded his head to me. "It is true, I was

fmg you. Had someone, say Berengar Fisher here, been

ftrsonating a hero of old, the story told would have

i grandly heroic and the sort of thing that would have

I forever in song—as has your duel with the Reithrese

eror in this very room.'*

'. smiled at him. "And if I had told a heroic tale, you

id have denied me the sword?"
^tfc shrugged. "And I may still, but you do not yet have
l^your possession. If you can defeat the ward, and if the
^1e is there, then I will have a decision to make,"

nodded and drew Wasp. On my knees I reached out

i the blade and touched it to the marble disk. The im-

; shimmered for a moment, then I heard a chorus of

466 - Michael A, Stackpole

voices speaking. One spoke Elven, another Reithrese, and
the third Mantongue. That one I understood. "Glory does
not lie within. Merely a sword that did win an empire
washed in blood. In the name of the common good. Let he
who puts hand to hilt, from sacred duty never wilt. An
empire won will yet fall if not governed for the good of
all."

I hadn't a chance to determine what that meant when I
found myself on my feet on burning sands. Across from me
I saw a Haladin warrior with his left hand entangled in a
sylvanesti's long hair. His right hand raised a hooked dag-
ger, but before he could even think of stabbing it down
into her exposed throat, I threw Wasp at him. Five hundred
years had done nothing for my ability to throw a knife, or
Wasp's ability to be thrown, but it hit the Haladina in the
face. I leaped at him, shielding her with my own body as
the knife flashed down.

I felt it rake across my back, but I forced the pain from
my mind. Grabbing him by the throat and groin, I raised
him up, then smashed him down over my right knee, snap-
ping his spine.

His body ran like hot wax through my fingers, and as it
puddled out below me, it transformed the desert into a
woodland. I heard a strangled cry behind me and whirled.
The sylvanesti metamorphosed into a Manchild, exhausted
and bleeding, who ran along on a dusty game path. Behind
him, chasing him, came an Elven warrior with a broad-
bladed spear. Spikes and barbs on his armor glinting in the
dappled sunlight, the screaming hunter came on and set
himself for the thrust that would kill the child.

I found Wasp in my hand as I stepped in to stop the Elf
from killing the child. The Elf shifted his spear to target
me- I dodged to my right and felt the burning sting of the
spear as it sliced into the flesh on my left flank. My left
hand closed around the haft of the spear, and I pulled the
Elf forward as my right hand brought Wasp up. The dagger
pierced the Elfs jaw and jabbed up into and through his
mouth. His last curse sprayed me with his blood; then he,
too, melted away, and his blood washed the land in red,
bringing me to the plains outside Alatun.

I turned to look at the Manchild, but he had again

^E-                                 Once a Hero   467

a-'
%•-

/.'%.. ranged. Dark-haired and slender, with her pale, naked
^'y flesh spattered with red mud, I saw a Reithressa stumble
^'"^!ong. Her ruby teeth gritted in pain, she scrambled to her
•^^fffEt again, then half slipped in the mud and lay there vul-
^^aierable and exhausted.

• "To Alatun and victory!" I heard shouted from behind
Be. As I turned to face this new threat, surprise and shock
ent a shudder through me. Racing in at the Reithressa, I
aw myself, Cleaveheart in hand, I knew that was not how
had looked at Alatun—at least I hoped it was not—be-
aause the man bearing Cleaveheart clearly intended to
'J&ughter the defenseless creature toward which he ran.

Reithrese or not, I had to intervene. I dove and tackled
ly twin. He went down hard, but kept Cleaveheart in his
rasp. I rolled away from him, narrowly avoiding a slash
iat split open the earth. Blood geysered into the air and
^T»oured down over me, all hot and sticky. It revolted me,
1'and I recoiled from the shower; then I saw my analog
I'erawling his way along toward the Reithressa.

Snarling incoherently, I leaped through the gushing wall
blood and landed on his legs. He tried to turn and stash
e with the sword, but I blocked his strike, then pounced
t his back as he recovered himself. The bloody fountain
lined viscous fluid over us, and I took advantage of it.
Sing my knees to pin his arms, I grabbed his head with
)th hands and forced his face into a puddle of blood. I
ild on as he tried to buck me off and twist away, and I
ieontinued to hang on until bubbles stopped coming up and
i body surrendered.

Then his body melted away, and I knelt there in a
wdy lake- The stink of death clung to me, and drying
aod threatened to stick my eyes shut. I looked over at
lere the Reithressa had been, but she had again become a
Ivanesti. Clothed in robes of the brightest white, she
rned toward me and I recognized her. "Larissa?"
A smile slowly spread across her face. "I knew it would
you, Neal. It had to be you. I wish I had been brave
ough for it to be the two of us together."
"What are you talking about? You are here, now."
"I will keep my promises to you, Neal, all of them, no
after how much they hurt me, because I would not cause

468    Michael A. Stackpole

hurt to you." As she spoke, I knew that what I was seeing
was a magickal image of her. It could not hear me, it could
not reason, and worst of all, it could not explain. Alt it
could do is what Larissa had created it to do when she
locked my sword away after my death.

Her image came toward me, hovering above the blood
with each step. "Remember that I love you and will always
love you, Neai," she said as she extended her right hand
toward me. "Never forget me and do forgive me."

I reached up to cake her hand in mine, but as my flesh
met hers, light flashed and I felt the cool leather and weight
of Cleaveheart once again in my hand. As my vision again
cleared, I saw the sword with which I had won an empire.
An old friend, it fit my hand as if I had never let it slip from
my grasp. I smiled and, for a second, felt as I had before I
died.

Then a tingle ran up my arm from the sword, and its
special magick began to work.

In the same way that Cleaveheart had been more of a
traditional Reithrese weapon when Tashayul used it, and
then had become a stout broadsword when it passed to me,
now it transformed itself again. The cross-hilt threw out
tendrils of metal that wove themselves into a fascinatingly
intricate basket-hilt. The blade itself stretched and nar-
rowed, with both edges taking on a razor's sheen. The tip
narrowed to a needle's point, and the hilt shifted subtly in
my hand to provide me the greater control I would need to
use it with the techniques I had learned from Berengar.

My circle of vision expanded beyond the sword, and I
once again found myself in the old Reithrese chapel in
Jarudin. My companions and the emperor, along with the
dozen guards beyond them, stared at me intently. I smiled
at them, stood, and worked the blade through a simple
salute. "May I present Cleaveheart."

Berengar shook his head. "That can't be Cleaveheart.
Cleaveheart was a broadsword and this is a rapier." He
looked hard at the emperor. "What kind of game are you
playing here?"

Hardelwick's expression mixed surprise with delight—
the kind of open-faced, open-mouthed smile seen at jug-
gler's shows. "There is no deception. Count Berengar. This

Once a Hero   469

|-l|i?<8 much of a surprise to me as it is to you. Can you
plain this, Man-Who-Would-Be-Neal?"
'While I had seen the transformation, I had no idea what
Sf had seen, so I asked.

Gena pointed to the marble circle. "When you touched
I dagger to that circle, a solid column of light shot from
ye to TashayuPs forehead, and it pulled you inside. I saw
•dowy movements, but beard nothing and could make
i Jenae of what 1 saw. Then the light vanished and you
'u'ww kneeling there with the sword."
Kt -I nodded. "This is not the first time this sword has al-
1 its shape. I saw the transformation this time, but I
ect that was fust part of a spell that wanted to intro-
• the changed blade to me. 1 did not see the change the
ious time because it happened during the year between
ayul's death and my recovery of the blade from Jam-
11 Oat)* This sword is involved with destinies and empires,
^Rod appears to change itself to be best suited for the envi-
H tDament in which it is being used."

I ' Berengar smiled. "That is fascinating. Perhaps, as it has
I 'become the sort of blade I wield, you should entrust it to
I' UK for safekeeping."

^   *Tm thinking that if I had a wife with whom you
.; "danced better than I, you'd not be asking to be keeping her,
|^1»oirid you?" I laughed as he shook his head, and the rest
^Joined in. "I'll be keeping Cleaveheart here for the time
firing, but if you want to continue my fencing lessons, I'd
$f:^e obliged."
'^  . **And I would be honored."

', ' "As will I be if you will consent to be my guests." The
\kJWsyxor bowed to me and I returned the bow. "You real-
7 i^» of course, that you are still the Knight-Defender of the
^ Empire." Reaching over, he plucked a glove from where it
" ^r lucked into the belt of one of his guards and displayed
tlt.40 roe. "As you can see by this brand, we still observe

-traditions here."




-\ "Then you know I would be honored to be your guest,
If that is acceptable to my companions."
^ Berengar and Gena both nodded their assent. "High-

|m, you do realize I also have a Dreel in my company?"

^Hardelwick's face lit up. "Shijef?"

470    Michael A. Stackpole

"His great, great grandson Stulkhrn "

"He is welcome as well" The emperor clapped his
hands. "In one old diary I read of the feast Beltran intended
to throw when you returned from the Reithrese war. As
you have consented to return after five hundred years, I
think it only fitting I complete his plans—if that is accept-
able."

"It is, Highness, provided one thing, I'm thinking."

"Yes?"

I smiled. "I consent as long as you're going to be using
food that wasn't put up at the same time I was put down."

Chapter 39

Once More to
the City of Gold

Wurter
P AA 499
The Present

Had she been asked to determine which of her companions
would have been least enthusiastic with the suggestion of
9& imperial reception, she would have said Berengar would
^r" select the idea. In fact, the suggestion sparked in him a
"^pleasant attitude that had been rare since they left Jarudm
^a their way to Cygestolia. It was as if the recovery of
Oeaveheart had been the climactic point of the mission
ffttd returning it to Aurdon was little more than perfunc-




^acy.

-1 Despite his banter with Hardelwick when the offer was
Ultde, Neal seemed least at ease with the idea of a celebra-
^UL He agreed because there was no way not to agree to
[^ honor—that much seemed clear to her—but she felt he
Hfceald just as soon have quit the capital as fast as possible.
fle he seemed happy to have reclaimed his sword from
{dace where it had been secreted after his death, melan-
took the edge off his normally stout-hearted person-

472    Michael A. Stackpole

The Dreel, whom they found waiting for them in the
suite of rooms the emperor gave over to them, appeared to
like the capital and greeted the idea of remaining for a day
with pleasure. "Capital cats fat be," he reported while
smacking his lips.

It took Gena a while to put together her feelings on the
idea of the celebration, and they were not crystallized even
after a full day spent purchasing suitable clothing for her-
self and watching Berengar prepare for the feast. She real-
ized she was doing everything she would have done, and, in
fact, had done, to prepare for similar events in the past, but
something seemed wrong in all of it. She found herself get-
ting ready for the feast with the same trepidation with
which one might walk across ice of an undetermined thick-
ness. Passage was possible, but each step brought with it
fear of disaster and a knowledge that the sound funda-
ments of the world may be nothing more than eggshell
thin.

The palace contained a ballroom that dwarfed the one
in the Fisher mansion in Aurdon, and it had been scrubbed
clean and brightly lit for the gala. Enough candles burned
in that room to set up their own wind currents, and light
gleamed from polished gold and silver fixtures, as well as
marble statuary and the multicolored floor. Silk streamers
and drapes splashed blue and red throughout, and food
and drink flowed in abundance.

In spite of the obvious preparations, the room and the
people seemed wrong. The room had no life and people
moved awkwardly through it- They appeared nervous and
studied every little detail as if they were seeing each for the
first time. Gena realized, of course, that was likely, which
meant the room had been seldom used and, therefore,
made everyone uneasy. Had they commonly been called to
the room for festivities, they would have been used to it,
and even oblivious to some of the more exquisite works of
art hung on the walls—pity though that might have been.

The social mix likewise seemed designed to promote
awkward and anxious relations. The first circle of guests—
Gena thought of them this way because they seemed EO
cluster together in the northeast corner of the room—were
imperial nobles of every rank, sex, and age. Their fine

Once a Hero   473

,dothes were not new and, while in keeping with the red-
and-blue color scheme, attained compliance by the use of
scarves, hose, and ribbons that could be added or removed
with ease.

Yet that seemed to be the only easy thing about them.
Gena watched them interact and found them akin to a
pack of dogs sniffing about to determine their correct social
status. Clearly in the running for one of the primary posi-
tions, Berengar moved among them with a confidence and
casual air that suggested he had no doubt as to where he
belonged. He deferred to those who were clearly his superi-
ors, by dint of age or wealth, yet remained cordial with
those who were obviously beneath him. If he snubbed any-
one, it was only someone the others snubbed, reinforcing
his right to be there among them by helping exclude those
who did not belong.

The second and third circles of guests had been selected
by the emperor because of their connections to Neal and
his era. Sharp and precise, the officers of the Emperor's
Own Steel Pack seemed to take great delight in showing off
their martial finery. Each of them wore a branded leather
glove on his left hand and snapped to attention when Neal
or the emperor passed by. Neal spent a certain amount of
time speaking with them, which they seemed to enjoy.
From what she heard of the conversations, she assumed
that listening intently to old war stories was an acquired
skill.

The third circle of guests were the descendants of the
people Neal and her grandfather had referred to as
"Mountain Men." She knew that the survivors of the
group that willingly allowed itself to be trapped in the
Hiris mountains had been rewarded with homes in the cap-
ital, but from the looks of their descendants, their exalta-
tion had not survived more than a generation or two. All of
them appeared to be well mannered, but grossly out of
their class at the gathering. Tradesmen mostly, from the
looks of their hands, they huddled together in small groups
and spoke in low whispers with each other.

Neal spent an inordinate amount of time with those
|:snsall peasant knots. She stood by him as painfully shy
Unpeople introduced themselves and told him who their an-

474    Michael A. Stackpole

cestor among tfae Mountain Men had been. Neat univer-
sally greeted them warmly and managed to come up with
one anecdote or another concerning their kin. The people
graciously excused themselves when he finished, but
walked away with warm smiles to meet others of their kind
and swap their stories.

She managed to steer Neal aside at one point and
pressed a goblet of wine into his hands. "All that talking
must make you thirsty."

He nodded wearily and drank a bit. "Wouldn't think it,
but after this rime I can actually see in them faces I knew."

Gena smiled, then looked down into the dark depths of
her own wine. "Are all of those stories true?"

Neal's green eyes narrowed for a moment, then he nod-
ded. "I'm thinking I'm remembering right. Only been
about six months to me since I was up in the mountains
freezing along with all of their kin. When they give me
some details, I can remember most of them. Things have
changed, of course, as stories come down through the
years. The Mountain Men were all good folks, and I'm
thinking they'd be happy that their kin are still living free
because of what they did. It would make the sacrifice
worth it."

She looked up into his face. "Do you think it was worth
it?"

Surprise raised his eyebrows. "I always thought it was
worth it. History, at least as reported to me by the Steel
Pack and these people, has made the whole fight against
the Reithrese into some glorious crusade where all of the
people on the correct side of the conflict were rewarded
with the spoils of the Reithrese Empire. They have made it
into a war of loot, but that wasn't what it was at all. We
fought the Reithrese because they denied us freedom and
kept us as slaves."

"But knowing that there would be rewards for your
actions must not have hurt things."

Neal shook his head emphatically. "We all thought we
were going to die, and we were willing to die. If you ask
any man or woman here to put a price on his life, you'll
find no amount of gold or jewels will suffice. But if you ask
the same person if he would be willing to lay down his life

Once a Hero   475

so his children and their children will never have to face
slavery, there's scarcely one here who would tell you he
would not."

He drank a bit as the vehemence behind his words sank
into Gena. "You see, Genevera, the Reithrese built an em-
pire to enrich themselves. We liberated an empire to free
ourselves. That people became rich and successful after the
fact does not mean that we fought our battles because of
money- Some of those who were best in battle were likely
worst in commerce or agriculture, so they did not benefit
from their efforts in the way someone else might have. The
point is, though, that we all fought so our futures would
not be limited, not so we could limit the futures of others
so as to enrich ourselves."

Neal hesitated, then smiled. "Forgive me, I did not
mean to lecture you. I ... it's quite a shock to see what
sort of stories survive. We are as removed now from my
war as I was from the Eldsaga. I wonder now about some
of the things I held as truths about Elves because of how
the stories were warped."

"But does that matter?"

Neal frowned. "Does it not?"

Gena shrugged- "You managed to look past what the
Eldsaga said and become friends with my grandfather. You
endured incredible abuse at the hands of my people, but
you never rejected them. You never struck out against
them, you fought for and with them. What you did, not
what you thought, made all the difference."

She pointed to the crowd of Humanity moving toward
the walls as the musicians in the northwest corner began to
play. "It does not matter if these people think the war was
fought for riches or freedom. The fact is that they remain
free and they jealously guard their freedom. Berengar's
quest to find Cleaveheart and end your domination of his
family's destiny is just a small example of how valued free-
dom has become. The emperor is less a dictator than he is
an archivist. That for which you fought lives on."

"Your point is well-taken."

Gena looked out at the couples filling the dance floor.
"Would you care to dance?"

Something painful flashed through NeaPs eyes before

476    Michael A. Sfackpole

he forced a smile onto his face. "I am afraid the oaly Elven
dance I know is the toms, and I doubt it is seen as suitable
for display outside Cygestotia.*'

"I am well versed in all sorts of the dances found
among Men." She reached for his goblet to set it on a table
beside hers, but he kept it out of her grasp.

"Please, Genevera, do not take this wrong but"—he
looked down—**the last time I danced, it was with Larissa.
Yesterday, in recovering the sword, 1 saw her again. My
past and the present are slamming together here, which
means that while I would love to dance with you, 1 would
feel awkward doing so."

Gena sensed his withdrawal and decided not to let him
get away. "Are you saying, Neal, that you think my grand-
aunt would have begrudged me this dance? Are you think-
ing she would have denied you a chance to dance with her
grandniece?"

"No, but . . ."

She snatched away his goblet with her left hand, then
took his left hand in her right. "You remember Larissa
well, Neal Roclawzi. She would smile to see us like this,
and for my part, I want to see if you actually are as good a
dancer as she said you were."

One turn on the floor led to another, so the memory of
that night's dancing managed to bring a smile to Gena's
face even to the point when their ioumey south had
brought them within sight of Aurdon. The emperor had
reluctantly allowed them to leave on the promise that Neal
would return to Jarudin to help fill in the gaps .in the his-
tory of how the empire was won. Neal agreed and even
allowed the emperor to reinvest him as Knight-Defender of
the Empire in a ceremony that included the Steel Pack pre-
senting him with a pair of gloves in which the left hand had
been branded with the mountain rune.

A company of the Steel Pack had ridden with them to
the borders of Ispar, then turned back before entering Cen-
tisian territory. The three weeks spent traveling with (hem
had proved beneficial for keeping NeaPs spirits up. The
experienced swordsmen among the imperial soldiers took

Once a Hero   477

great delight in sparring with Neal and Berengar. While
Hardetwick's men were good, and displayed a number of
different fencing styles, Neal and Berengar clearly had an
edge over all of them- Numerous promises of return
matches were shouted back and forth when the Steel Pack
departed for the capital.

She found the remaining ten days between the border
and Aurdon entertaining. As they rode through territory
Berengar knew well, he felt constrained to point out things
of interest. His pride in Centisia became evident in his
voice and, when they had stopped for breaks, m the way he
paced back and forth. Neal tolerated being lectured, but
the Dreel took to aping Berengar's strutting in a comical
and decidedly unflattering manner, which set Berengar off.

Berengar and Neal began to fence a great deal more
earnestly. Berengar still had an edge over Neal, but the gap
between them closed quickly. Gena saw more of the un-
usual and odd moves from the imperial soldiers show up m
Neat's repertoire. Berengar managed to counter most all of
the ploys Neal used, but he had to work harder at it than
he ever had before.

Just outside Aurdon they met a patrol of the Aurdon
Rangers. Gena recognized Captain FIoris, but had remem-
bered him as a more carefree sort of individual. In the six
months since she had last seen him, he had lost weight and
had added a scar along his jawline. Even so the Man re-
mained gracious and greeted their party warmly.

"Welcome home. Count Berengar. I am very glad to see
you here again. How went your quest?"

Berengar looked over at Neal. "We succeeded. This is
Neal Roclawzi and he bears Cleaveheart."

Floris's )aw dropped. "But, but, Neal Roclawzi died
five hundred years ago." He shivered. "His ghost
has . . ."

"Yes, yes, FIoris, this is true. But it is also true that,
thanks to Lady Genevera, he lives again." Berengar smiled
carefully. "He was told of our plight and has come to set it
to rights."

Neal reined Scurra up and offered FIoris his hand.
, "Pleased to meet you. Captain FIoris, is it?"

"Yes, sir."

478    Michael A. Stackpole

Neal smiled warmly at the soldier and at his^ men. "A
fine group of soldiers you have here. Captain. I gather from
what I have been told and your relief at seeing Count Ber-
engar here, that the Haladina have continued to harass
caravans coming into Aurdon."

"More than that, sir, they have burned a number of
farms. The panic is forcing the price of grain up, which is
causing a great deal of unrest in the city." He looked over
at Berengar. "Half the Rangers are deployed to guard the
warehouses to prevent people from looting them."

"This is most serious, but now we can deal with it ap-
propriately. The treachery that has culminated in this series
of events will soon have its own reward." Berengar pointed
at one of the soldiers. "Ride back into the city and inform
my family that I am returned successful."

Neal frowned- "We could ride on in just as easily as he
can. I'm certain Captain Floris has his patrol to continue."

Berengar waved that idea off with a flick of his right
hand. "Hardly, he is escorting us into the city. It is his duty
and his honor."

"It is an honor, my Lord."

Neal shook his head. "I hated parades, and I'd rather
be out killing Haladina than riding with us back into
Aurium."

"Aurdon, Neal, it has changed since you were last
here." Berengar laughed and started to ride toward the
city. "You will find yourself most welcome among my peo-
ple. Come, we will prepare for a ceremony tomorrow night
in which you can undo the curse beneath which you placed
us, and true justice can again determine the course of
events in Aurdon. And then we will celebrate this new free-
dom with a festival the like of which you have never seen."

Gena fell in beside Neal as they rode into the city. Floris
and Berengar preceded them and the other Rangers rode
behind them, but they had enough room from either group
to be able to converse without being overheard. A wave of
weariness washed over Gena, but she forced it away with a
laugh until she saw Neal's dour expression.

"What is the matter? This is almost finished."

Neal shook his head. "Nothing, really, though I should
have expected it. I'm thinking that Berengar reminds me of

Once a Hero   479

your grandfather when he was in the company of other
Elves. On the road we have been of equal importance, all
of us. Now, because we are going into his city, he eclipses
us."

Gena raised an eyebrow. "I'd not thought Neal Custos
Sylvanii would be jealous of anyone."

"Jealous?" Neal frowned, then laughed. "I don't think
Fm jealous. I have never wanted what Berengar has."

"You don't find his notoriety vexing?"

"Is that inquiry serious?" Neal watched her carefully,
and she sensed she had asked something that lessened her
in his eyes. "I have never been one to imagine another
person's being praised in any way diminished me. If any-
thing, I can now enjoy an anonymity that eluded me for a
long time."

"Forgive me, Custos Sylvanii, I did not mean to pre-
sume."

He nodded. "I know." He reached out and touched her
Hgfatly on the shoulder, then quickly withdrew his hand-
"There is much of your grandaunt in you, and sometimes I
forget that you do not know everything she did about me.
How she understood me, I do not know, but why, I do."

"Vitamorii."

Neal pounded his right fist against his chest. "She still
lives in there, and I'm not of a mind to evict her. But she
knew that it would take ambition for me to be jealous of
Berengar."

"And you have no ambition."

"Not exactly." His smile returned in full force and
made Gena feel better. "It's just that my ambition is to
avoid being ambitious."

As they entered the city, Gena watched Neal as he saw
what Aurium had become. The shock remained evident on
his face throughout the journey. He sat tall in his saddle as
he rode through the Haladin district, but the stern expres-
sion he had adopted softened when he saw children playing
with dogs in the streets. He stood in the stirrups to peer
deep into the open market, then waved at the troopers as
. they rode to their barracks.

Finally they arrived at the Fisher mansion. Berengar dis-

480 Michael A. Stackpole

mounted and helped Gena down, then looked ^p at Neal.
"Come, they will want to see you, too."

Neal shook his head. "If you do not mind, my lord, I
think I would like to travel through your city. Many are the
changes since I was last here."

"I have no objection, Neal, but I would be upset if your
sword were to tali into the wrong hands."

Neat nodded and pulled the scabbard with Cleaveheart
in it from his belt. He handed it to Gena. "If you will
safeguard this as well as your grandaunt did, I will be in
your debt."

Gena accepted the weapon, but something in the stiff
formality of Neal's tone bothered her. "Are you certain
you will not stay with us?"

"Please, I will return and relax here, but this is the first
opportunity I have had to be alone in a town. It has been a
long time—longer even than you think, really. I just feel a
need to hide myself In a crowd."

Berengar nodded and plucked a pouch of coins from
Floris's belt. He tossed it to Neal. "Here, this should see to
your entertainment without compromising your identity."

Neal deftly caught it. "My thanks. Count Berengar. If
you will excuse me."

Gena smiled hopefully at him. "Are you certain you do
not want any company?"

"I am certain, thank you." Neal winked at her, but she
caught no warmth from the act. He reined his horse
around and rode back out through the gate.

Gena watched him go, all the while feeling smaller and
smaller inside. A month before, beginning with the dance
at the emperor's celebration, she had felt as if they were
growing closer. Even on the road they had maintained a
new openness, but their arrival in Aurdon appeared to have
cut off any further chance to get to know Neal better. If she
took what he said to her as the truth, she found herself in
competition with her grandaunt, an idea she hated because
she knew, ultimately, she would lose in that comparison.
Neal idolized Larissa as Gena had once idolized him.

Berengar settled his arm around her shoulder. "Don't
worry. Lady Genevera, he will come back."

Once a Hero   481

^     She looked up at Berengar as they mounted the steps to
^  the front of the mansion. "What makes you so certain of

^' 1-hflT?"
&.  cn*n.

"It's easy." He nodded at her. "He'll come back be-
"^ cause we have his sword."

Chapter 40

Old Weeds Bear
Bitter Fruit

_x

Winter
A.R. 499
The Present
My 536th Year

I returned to the Fisher domain rather late in the day, or
early, depending upon whether you accounted days by
midnight or dawn. Five hundred years had changed
Aurdon considerably, and that included a great advance in
the brewer's art. Each of the taverns I visited brewed its
own ale, and I enjoyed making my survey of their wares.
One, an especially crisp, very amber brew lacked the sort
of aftertaste I remember from when I was last alive, so I
found one more reason to be happy that I had returned to
life.

My wanderings had also uncovered for me a number of
other reasons to regret my resurrection. Coaxing a full lit-
any of crimes visited by the Fishers upon the Riverens and
vice versa had not taken much effort—and it included a
complete and detailed chronology of my ghost's interven-
tion in their relations. Of course, I didn't bother to mention
I was the Neal who had beset the families so. Despite that

Once a Hero   4S3

omission on my part, I got the distinct impression that
keeping track of family fortunes within Aurdon was a sport
that amused and delighted a great number of people—espe-
cially those with ties to neither clan.

Other things I had learned, things hinted at and rumors
whispered, obliquely suggested to me that intrigue rivaled
commerce as the primary occupation in Aurdon. Frustrated
•in their attempts to destroy each other, the Fisher and
Riveren families had succeeded in crushing any other mer-
chant house in the city. Normal citizens said they could feel
the pressure building to some sort of climax, and already
rumors of Berengar's return brought with it speculation
ranging from an Eiven invasion of the city to mercenaries
using flashdrakes to slaughter the citified Haladina whole-
sale.

1 found the room to which the night porter guided me
as spartan as it was small, which I really didn't mind- Be-
" fore my death I had spent months living in a canvas tent,
and since then I had fared little better, so the room I had
been given appeared opulent. I closed my door and began
to shuck my clothes when I heard a light knock from the
door leading to the adjoining room.

Bare-chested and barefooted, I opened the door. "Gena.
I hope I did not wake you."

Standing there in a long bedgown, with her golden hair
gathered into one thick braid, she looked chillingly like her
grandaunt had when I reclaimed Cleaveheart. Only Gena's
violet eye color marked her as physically different from
Larissa, yet in her eyes I saw much more that separated
them. The expression on her face told me she had been
sleeping, but not well.

"I heard your door close, and I wanted to see if you had
survived your peregrinations." She forced a smile on her
face and waved a hand through the air between us.
"You've been drinking."

I nodded as I backed away from the door and retreated
into the room. "That I have, Gena."

"And wenching as well?" She kept her voice light, but I
caught a hurt note in her question.

"Wenching, me? In fact, I have not." I shrugged, the ale
making the motion sloppier than I wanted. "What woman

484 Michael A. Stackpole

would be interested in a man old enough to be potting
soil?"

"My lord underestimates how well he has been pre-
served."

"My lady forgets that I remember an Aurium where the
Fishers lived in a longhouse with floors of dirt and some-
one who was likely Berengar's great, great, great, great,
great"—I tried to keep track of greats on my fingers, but
failed—"grandmother expressed a willingness to lie with
me. And I remember Larissa."

I felt my face getting hot and my anger rising, but I
could not figure out why, so I tamped the emotion down.
"I have not had a chance, in five centuries and more, just to
sit in a tavern and watch and listen to people. Traveling
with you and Berengar, I have been out of touch with nor-
mal people—except at the emperor's festivities and on the
road with the Steel Pack."

Gena's face closed down. "I did not mean to anger
you."

"I know, and you have not, really." I hesitated, my
mouth open, as words lined themselves up in my brain. "It
is just that you brought me back to life and reminded me
what it was to be Neal Elfward. I needed common folks to
remind me what it was like to be the Man I was before I
became Neal Elfward."

"But you always were remarkable."

I laughed. "I might have been different, but there was a
time when I could see why I had shouldered the responsi-
bilities I had. I had a feel for what normal people wanted
and feared. I wanted to recover that."

"Are their fears all that different from those of Berengar
or the emperor?"

Something in her voice told me that was not really the
question she wanted to ask, but it was the only one she
gave me to answer. "They are. The emperor, the Fishers,
the Riverens, and all the nobles we met in Jarudin all are
removed from the daily terrors of life. The common folk
worry about having enough food to eat or enough money
to pay their taxes. Berengar worries if a wine has aged
enough in a decade to be served to people he wants to
impress. The emperor is able to devote ail his time to re-

Once a Hero   485

constructing the history of the empire, which is a noble
pursuit, but well and truly removed from the struggle for
existence many people face."

I watched her carefully. "So what is it you fear,
Genevera?"

She started to answer, then stopped. She folded her
arms, then raised her right hand to play with the ring on
the silver chain around her neck. "I fear many things, Neal.
Tonight I feared that, as your departure mirrored that of
Durriken, we would find you as he was found."

"Dead by the Eight Cuts."

"Yes," she whispered hoarsely.

I sensed in her the same pain I had felt in her grandaunt
when Aarundel and Marta had been taken away. Then
Elven law kept us apart, and even though I wanted imme-
diately to go to Gena and take her in my arms, I hesitated. I
took a step forward, then stopped, then started forward
again awkwardly.

Her head came up, and she held her left hand out to
keep me back. "No, no, I understand your difficulty in
reaching out to me. I do, I really do." The ring glittered as
she worked it back and forth between thumb and forefin-
ger. "These were the rooms that Berengar had given to Rik
and me when . . . before Rik died. This ring is all I have
to remember him by."

"That, and the flashdrakes and the memories."

"Yes, and the memories." Tears welled up in her eyes
and spilled down over her cheeks, anointing them the way
the dew anoints a rose. "And those memories mean I am
missing Durriken very much right now—probably as much
as you miss my grandaunt. As much as I would like to seek
solace in your arms, in a hug, I am afraid it might lead to
something that would leave both of us feeling awkward in
its wake."

Her soft words sobered me, and I realized that what she
was saying was true. As I was a link for her to her past, so
she linked me and my past. In her I could find a sense of
peace I had not known because of the laws that kept
Larissa and me apart. In me she could find a return to the
days before Durriken's death and even, perhaps, to the sim-
pler days before she left Cygestolia. We were, each of us,

486    Michael A. Stackpole

the balm for the other's wounds, but we threatened such
complete healing that neither one of us would bear a scar
from the experience that had wounded us. And each of us
felt that not to have a scar, to remain unmarked, would be
to forget and betray people we had dearly loved.

Gena looked past me and shivered. "When Rik died, I
felt I had betrayed him by not being there to prevent his
death. I am, after all, a sorceress capable of bringing you
back from the dead, but I could not do the same for him."
She glanced at me and laughed ruefully. "And, of course, in
my head I know you were a special case—a combination of
circumstances that has no bearing on his situation, yet it
eats at me more and more. Even now he lies in the Fisher
vault, laid to rest in a place of honor, yet he must be angry
with me because I have not done anything to avenge him."

"Would he have wanted vengeance?"

"Yes. No. I don't know." She looked at me imploringly.
"He was a man who had once been a slave and who fought
for his own freedom. Whoever killed him robbed him of
that freedom. I think he would like to be avenged, and after
you sever the knot tonight, freeing the Fishers to act
against the Riverens and the Haladina, perhaps he will be
avenged."

"Your reasoning appears sound." I nodded and held my
hand out. "Might I look at that ring?"

She removed it and handed it to me. "Be careful, part of
the setting turns and a needle comes out of the rim. He
called it a slapdeath ring."

"Even I have heard of them." Following her instruc-
tions, I produced the little bit of a needle, along with it
came a sweet, cloying scent. "This belonged to Durriken?"

"Lord Orvir, who was Berengar's brother." He died
years ago—supposedly while being chased by Haladina or
your ghost, depending upon which story you decide to be-
lieve." Gena took the ring back from me. "Count Berengar
granted Rik the ring and the title so he could legitimately
carry the flashdrakes while in Aurdon. I prefer thinking of
Rik as he looked the night Berengar gave him this ring, not
when they found him."

"I understand and agree with your decision in that mat-
ter.'* I smiled at her in what I hoped was a reassuring man-

Once a Hero   487

ner. "And I would not worry about Durriken's ghost being
angry with you. Take it from a man who has been dead—
knowing that I was held in the heart of one who loved me
was the only thing that made eternity endurable."

That brought a smile to her face. "You are most kind,
Neal Custos Sylvanii."

"Kind? I'm thinking I'm only speaking the truth here.
You and I know it for the truth, too."

She nodded. "I can but hope you are right."
"Sleep on the idea, Gena, and you will know I am."
She drifted back toward the door to her room. "How
will I know?"

I winked at her. "You'll have sweet dreams, and in that
way you can be certain."

My dreams were not so sweet, but escaped being night-
mares because they happened after the sun had risen. Ev-
erything I had learned and suspected and feared all
managed to mix together into a surreal battlefield. I stood
alone against an army of faceless individuals. Half of them
I recognized as having fought and died at my side ages ago.
Neither they nor their armor had withstood the test of time
at all well, and their keening wail of despair seemed in-
tended to tell me something, but I could not puzzle it out.

The other half of my combatants appeared to be war-
riors from the era in which I now lived. They bore rapiers
that twisted around my parries with the agility of an alley
cat and struck with the speed of a viper. When they with-
drew, a rank of men carrying flashdrakes stepped forward
and triggered volley after volley at me. With each ball that
hit me I relived the pain that had given me this scar and
that. I realized that in the five centuries since my death, war
had become no less savage, but the means for inflicting
pain and death had simply become more sophisticated.

Though I only slept fitfully, I did not come fully awake
until late in the afternoon. At the foot of my bed I found a
suit of clothes laid out for me. Over a white shirt I would
be wearing a jacket made of brown brushed leather. The
sleeves had been slashed to show off a satiny material the
color of emeralds. The trousers, which reached only my

488    Michael A. Stackpole

knees, had been made out of brown velvet tha< matched
the jacket. The hose matched the emerald of the sleeves,
and I had been provided with a pair of brown brushed-
leather bootlets that had a triangular profile and no laces to
keep them tight on my feet. A similarly shaped hat with a
ridiculously long green feather had also been created to
complete my outfit, but I'd have sooner worn one of the
shoes on my head than anything with that plume.

I washed and dressed myself quickly enough and was
surprised by the close fit of the clothes. Though they made
me feel considerably younger than I was, and even younger
than I appeared to be, I felt only the hat would compromise
my masculinity. I cinched my belt tight around my waist
and slipped Wasp into the waiting sheath. As I slipped the
bracelet I had made so long ago onto my right wrist, I
looked for Cteaveheart. I could not find the sword and
panicked for a moment before I remembered having en-
trusted it to Gena the night before.

I knocked on her door and she bade me enter. One step
into the room, and any vanity I might have harbored about
my appearance vanished. Two women backed away from
Gena and giggled at my slack-jawed expression, but they
barely existed in my eyes- Never had I seen anyone look as
beautiful as Genevera did.

Her golden hair had been brushed out so it shone like
silk. It fell to her shoulders and complimented the soft vio-
let of her gown. Cut from satin and gathered here and there
with buttons, it draped her in ruffles and frills. Lying taut
against her flat stomach, yet flowing out into gathered
skirts, the dress confirmed a stateliness and nobility that I
had all but missed as we traveled. The gown displayed her
bosom to best advantage, and lavender lace gloves hid
her delicate hands. Judiciously applied cosmetics molded
her inhumanity into an intoxicatingly exotic and seductive
snare.

Surprised by her appearance, I wondered how the
Genevera I had seen on the trail had been able to blossom
into this flower. I knew she had always possessed this sort
of beauty, and had easily been as ceremoniously dressed for
the emperor's reception, but I had been unable to see her
beauty for what it was. Something in my mind prevented

Once a Hero   489

.OK from actually being able to believe what my eyes
showed me.

I realized that when I first joined her and Berengar on
their quest, in Gena I saw Larissa, and recalling old memo-
ries hurt. Then, after Gena had been battered by Tacorzi, I
could not imagine her as she stood now. And on the road
from Jarudin to Aurdon I had been learning more of the
world and trying to integrate my memories of the past with
the realities of the present- I had excluded her from that
process because I feared having her supplant Larissa in the
same way I let changes in the course of a river supplant my
old memory of it.

I held my hands open and wide of my body, unable to
speak.

She laughed and broke eye contact shyly.

I looked down as well. "Your beauty vindicates the
Consilliarii's wisdom in letting your parents and your
grandparents bring children into the world."

She nodded her head graciously, then smiled at me.
"And you, for a Man who said he was naught but potting
soil, are quite handsome. I can understand the Dun Wolf
being a legend for more than his prowess in battle."

I laughed. "That being said, I hesitate to ask for my
sword."

Gena pointed to the table where the sword lay in its
scabbard. I slid the blade and scabbard home at my left
hip, then bowed to Gena. "M'lady, if you would do me the
honor of allowing me to escort you to the festivities."

"It would be my pleasure."

The two servants cooed and clucked as Gena took my
right arm- I stiffened a bit because that meant I could not
draw Cleaveheart easily, but to have her on the other side
meant we would have the blade between us, and I did not
want that. The elder of the two women shooed the younger
one over to open the door, and I let Gena precede me from
the room.

As she had been at the mansion more than I, she set the
pace and direction of our travel. Quickly enough we found
ourselves at the head of stairs in the southwest corner of a
large and high-ceilinged, rectangular room. Opposite us,
along the long western wall, an orchestra had been situ-

490    Michael A. Stackpole

ated, and played simple and sedate music. The" stairs led
down to the east, then switched back to the west, which
gave all those gathered below us ample time to see us make
our way to the room's floor.

The throng below us struck me as just as awkwardly
jammed together as the emperor's guests had been. Nearest
us I saw Berengar and enough people with similar faces
and postures to assume the area at the foot of the stairs
was the demense of the Fisher Clan. That meant that the
nervous group at the far end of the room were likely River-
ens. The people in the middle must have been the richer
and more ambitious among Aurdon's population—which
meant I did not recognize a single face among them from
my Journey through the city. The only exception to that
rule came in the form of four men who, were they not
wearing incredible finery, I would have thought brigands
waiting for a signal before robbing the place.

Until we started our descent into the room, a tall,
vaguely rectangular lump shrouded in a blue velvet curtain
in the middle of the room had attracted a lot of attention. I
thought it might be a wardrobe or some similar piece of
furniture beneath the cloth, but its presence in the middle
of what should have been the dance floor surprised me.

As we entered the room, Genevera doubtless was the
cause of so many people looking at us, but the fact that I
alone among the people gathered wore a sword did spark
conversation. They apparently found me as boorish as they
found her enchanting; wearing more than a dagger to a
social event such as this was clearly of questionable taste.
Ail of the women who watched Gena through a veil of
jealousy likely pitied her for being accompanied by some-
one like me, while the men probably sympathized with my
desire to wear a sword to fend them off when I had her by
my side.

Berengar met us at the base of the stairs and bowed
deeply. As he straightened up, he signaled the orchestra
with his left hand and the music died. His black velvet
jacket and trousers had been fashioned similarly to mine,
but the slashes in his sleeves showed the same purple satin
that had been used to make Genevera's gown. He, too,, had

Once a Hero   491

eschewed the little cap that had come with my clothes, and
he did not wear a sword.

He raised his voice, though he hardly needed to, and
addressed everyone in the room. "Friends, relatives. Elders,
and distinguished guests, I am most pleased to see you
here. This is a night that shall live forever in the history of
Aurdon. It is but an echo of a night five centuries ago in
which an oath was taken, an oath that defined this city and
its nature."

Berengar steered us through the crowd and toward the
velvet-hung monolith. "As you all know and have been
repeatedly reminded, five centuries ago, before the empire
even existed, our city—barely a town then—was torn be-
cause of a conflict between two families. Mercenaries, in
the service of the Red Tiger, came to Aurium and forged a
peace between the Fishers and the Riverens by creating the
Knott family."

He reached out and pulled the dark cloth away from
what it hid. The curtain puddled at the base of a glass-
walled wardrobe with glass doors facing us. In it, above the
fanned display of swords that occupied the lower half of
the enclosure, hung the sleeves I had knotted together so
long ago. Ismere's blue sleeve had faded a bit with age, and
Rufus's homespun sleeve had yellowed considerably, but
the cloth had not deteriorated as much as I thought it
should have. Perhaps the oath I swore that night did have
some power to it. I did not know, but the revulsion I had
felt that night concerning Aurium and the two families
came rushing back to me at the sight of the knotted sleeves.

Berengar allowed the buzz running through the crowd
to die before he continued. "You all know that I went away
from here on an important quest, and I have returned, suc-
cessful. On the night these sleeves were joined, Neal
Roclawzi bound the Fishers and Riverens to work together
until Wasp and Cleaveheart sundered the knot you see be-
fore you. My quest was to recover those venerable blades
so this raise alliance could be ended forever."

That brought something of an outburst from the north
end of the room, but Berengar ignored whoever had spo-
ken. As the crowd slowly drifted closer, he pointed to me-
"This quest was one that took me and my companions

492 Michael A. Sfackpole

from here to Jarudin, Cygestolia, and evn to the
Rimefields far to the north. Not only did we recover the
weapons we needed, but Lady Genevera of Woodspire even
brought Neat Roclawzi back to life so he could undo what
he had done that night."

1 started to speak, but before I could say anything, cries
of "Fraud!" erupted among the Riverens. I don't think they
intended them as distractions, but merely as an honest ex-
pression of their disbelief and outrage at what Berengar
had said. After all, if rumors about Berengar's return had
begun to spike anxiety among them, then hearing him
claim that he had brought Neal Roclawzi back to Aurdon
after five centuries in the grave had to seem like the basest
and boldest of lies.

Woven amid their shouts, I heard a growl and a scream.
As I turned to my left to try to pinpoint their origins, all I
saw was a face locked in fury and the naked dagger coming
at my back.

Chapter 41

Bright Fruit,
Cruel Poison

Winter
i A.R. 499
The Present

Gena felt Neal pull roughly away from her before she had a
clue anything was wrong- She turned toward him and saw
a flash of silver that exploded into bloody crimson as Neal
parried a dagger aside with his left forearm. His right fist
came around and sounded like an ax chopping wood as it
landed square on his assailant's face. The assassin's legs
went boneless as blood gushed from his broken nose. He
hit the ground, and Neal curled down into a kneeling
crouch a second later, clutching his arm against his stom-
ach.

She dropped to her knees beside him. "How badly are
you hurt?"

Neal hissed and raised his left arm. The dagger had
sliced through the jacket sleeve and had scored a nasty gash
on the underside of his forearm. Blood welled up in it and
ran down into the sleeve itself. "I've survived worse, but
it's always the shallow ones that sting something power-
ful."

494    Michael A. Stackpole

Gena flipped up the hem of her purple gown^and tore a

strip from one of her white underskirts. "No magick, cor-
rect?"

Neal looked at her, then smiled. "Correct." He pulled     •?
off the rest of his sleeve and let her bandage the wound.     ^
The white bandage quickly reddened, so she produced an-     ^
other tattered bandage from her clothes and wound this     |
one even tighter.                                          "

Berengar pounced on the assailant and hauled him to     <-'
his feet by the scruff of his neck. "Oho, Titus RiverenE" He    i ^
shook him, and Gena saw the bleeding figure was little
more than a boy. Had the blood from his nose not dark-
ened his moustache, she never would have noticed it, be-
cause, like his fair eyebrows, it could not be seen against
his pale skin. "What treachery is this?"

The dazed boy said nothing coherent, but scarlet bub-
bles formed on his lips. Blood from his nose ran down over
his mouth to his chin, then dripped down to the floor. Had
Berengar not held him up, Gena knew the boy would have
collapsed again, and she felt sorry for him.

Berengar held him aloft as he might a fox taken after a
long hunt. "Everyone here saw this. You all saw a Riveren
strike at the man who would tear down the shield behind
which they hide. Need any of you any more proof of their
baseness and dishonor? Suckling at their mothers' breasts,
the Riverens leam to strike at a man's back, so how much
worse must they be as adults? And what adult—if he has
any concept of responsibility—would use a child as an as-
sassin?"

He released the boy, and Titus pooled in a bony pile at
Berengar's feet. The count looked down at- Neal and ex-
tended his hand to him. "Give me Cleaveheart, and I will
strike the blow that will free the Fishers to avenge this
assault upon you."

Nea! shook his head as he slowly rose. "I'm thinking,
Berengar, I've never needed avenging before, and I'm not
going to start needing it now."

"Your point is well-taken, Neai." Berengar crossed to
the glass cabinet and opened the doors. "There, use
Cleaveheart to sunder the knot, then we Fishers will be
your allies in destroying the Riverens."

Once a Hero   495

Again Neal shook his head. "If you're thinking the rash
act of a child means his family needs killing, then I'm glad
the knot exists. And even if Titus there were meant to as-
sassinate me—and since his blade wasn't poisoned, I'm not
thinking anyone put him up to this—I've got a question or
two I want answered before I throw the Fishers and the
Riverens in a pit together."

Berengar stiffened. "Questions can be answered later.
Give me the sword and I will sever the knot."

"Hear him out!" shouted someone from the Riveren
end of the room.

"The sword, Neal, now! You know not the forces with
which you deal."

Gena sensed a hardening in Neal and saw it reflected in
the fire flashing through his green eyes. She slowly stood
and pulled back away from him, clearing the space be-
tween him and Berengar.

NeaPs voice rumbled low like the growl of his name-
sake. "Oh, I'm thinking I have a very good idea of what
Fm dealing with- I walked in your city yesterday, and I
learned a number of things you'd not be wanting me to
know if you had looked at me as more than a way to get
your hands on Cleaveheart here."

Berengar's eyes narrowed. "I have no idea what you are
talking about."

"No? I think you do, and I think even your family does
not know how far you have gone." Neal looked over at the
Fishers. "You believed Berengar would be bringing
Cleaveheart back to sunder this knot, and when he did
that, you knew there would be a war. So you've brought
mercenaries into Aurdon. Four companies, at the least, and
their captains are here now. You've forgotten that I
captained my own mercenary company, so I know the look
and understand the language. You may have thought your-
selves subtle having them come into town and storing their
kits in one of your warehouses, but idle able-bodied men
spending Fisher gold attracts attention in the lower reaches
of your city."

Neal smiled easily. "Did you also know of a rumor old
enough to have grown moss about a secret foundry at Lake
Orvir that's making flashdrakes? It's said there's at least

496    Michael A. Stackpole

ten thousand of the weapons stored there, which is more
than enough to equip the mercenaries in your employ. Just
the thing an ambitious heir to the imperial throne would
need to press his claim and eliminate competition. And
with Cieaveheart and the prophecy concerning it, he might
even imagine he could retake and reforge the whole of the
empire."

Berengar shook his head. "Baseless fantasies of a man
whose brain rotted white he lay in his tomb."

"Flight of fancy that might all be, but there are other
things I know as facts." Neal glanced over at Gena and she
felt her blood run cold. "I know that you had Durriken
murdered."

"Preposterous!"

"How do you know, Neal?" Gena stared at the both of
them, every kind thought she had ever had about Berengar
turning into a barb that skewered her soul. "How can you
be certain?"

"Durriken's fiashdrakes and Lord Orvir's ring were
given to you after Durriken*s death by Eight Cuts. Perhaps
Haladin culture has changed since my time, but Eight Cuts
was reserved for Haladin traitors. Durriken was not
Haladin, was he?"

Gena numbly shook her head.

"And even if the Haladina had changed that much, they
never would have left his flashdrakes and the ring with him
after they killed him. That mistake the Reithrese made five
centuries ago, and I spotted it then. Berengar has repeated
Takrakor's blunder here and now."

Berengar forced a laugh. "Speculation. You offer no
link between me and Durriken's death. It would have been
just as easy for the Riverens to have killed him, or the
Haladina—who were then frightened off before they could
loot his body."

Neal shook his head and pointed to the ring lying flat
against Gena's chest. "Even when I was young, a slapdeath
ring was well-known. Durriken was wearing it and didn't
know until too late that your people had come to kill him.
He could not use one of the flashdrakes, but he got one
man with the ring. Yo« may be well liked in Aurdon, Ber-
engar, but your cousin Waldo was not, and many was the

Once a Hero   497

'person who recounted the tale of his death by food poison
at the time of Durriken's demise."

Neal looked the crowd over and shook his head. "I'm
dunking, Berengar, that you decided that with Cieaveheart
you could win yourself an empire, so you set out to recover
the sword. The story about freeing your family from my
curse was a convenient dodge, and with her eyes blinded by
the desire to avenge Durriken, Lady Genevera missed the
clues."

The count stared imperiously down at Neal. "And you
did not?"

"Lad, when you go from lustfully looking at her to
lustfully looking at my sword, I'm bound to notice."

"You are an old man. Your time is passed. Give me the
sword, and I shall let you live out the remainder of your
unnatural life in peace."

"I'm thinking, Berengar, that's not possible. You might
give me peace, but my conscience would not oblige me."
Neal nodded his head toward the cabinet. "You heard
Tacorzi—this blade must be given away or won in combat.
I will not give it to you."

Berengar smiled easily as he drew a rapier from the rack
in the cabinet. "Then I must give it to you, mustn't I?"

Gena saw four men of military bearing move to the
forefront of the crowd and edge toward the cabinet. Filter-
ing her fury at having been deceived and betrayed into her
magick, she gestured at the cabinet. A purple bolt of light-
ning launched itself from the palm of her right hand and
slammed the doors shut. The energy fanned out and
formed a net that sizzled and crackled, filling the air with
the scent of ozone.

She met the stares of the four mercenary captains. "This
is their fight, unless you foolishly choose to make it my
fight."

Berengar saluted her. "Bravo, I never wanted interfer-
ence. You honor me."

"I do nothing of the sort, Berengar." Her eyes sparked
with the agonizing fury that knotted her stomach. "You
had better pray Neal slays you, because if he does not, I
will. And if the job falls to me, the horrors of the Eldsaga
will be but pleasant memories for you as you die."

"X

Chapter 42

Slash and Burn

-X

Winter
A.R. 499
The Present
My 536th Year

I let the cold finality of Gena's words sink into me, and I
accepted the responsibility of avenging Durriken for her.
Likewise I chose to accept preventing the perversion of
what we had alt fought for so long ago, and I accepted the
safeguarding of those who would be maimed and killed if
Berengar's dreams of empire became reality. Never before
had my reasons for a fight been so clearly drawn. I felt that
somehow this battle was more important than any I had
ever fought before.

As we set ourselves for combat, I knew it would be
child's-play to use Cleaveheart to slash his rapier to bits. I
could defeat him in that way, but I chose not to. This was a
fight between him and I, between what I was and what he
wanted to become. I saw no reason to make his rapier pay
for his ambition.

With a whispered hiss Cleaveheart came up and went
down in a salute to my foe. He stood slightly taller than I,

Once a Hero   499

but carried less weight in his hips and thighs than I did.
Technically he was a bigger target, but that size also gave
him an advantage in reach. I had discovered, in sparring
with smaller foes in the Steel Pack, that reach could decide
a fight. I also knew, given his skill and ail that I had
learned, the inch of reach he may have had over me would
matter little.

Berengar saluted me, his blade's razor edges picking up
sad reflecting the purple lightning playing over the cabinet.
He set himself in a low stance, with the tip of his blade
pointing at my right eye. I brought Cieaveheart up and
targeted his throat. I let the point of my blade circle slowly,
making a circuit no larger than a coin. Keeping myself on
the balls of my feet, I waited, because I knew that in this
place and given his cause, he would have to strike first.

He did not disappoint me. As he slid forward, his point
dropped and arrowed in at my right thigh. I snapped my
blade down and around to the left, awkwardly inverting
the sword in a huge circular parry. I carried his blade back
out to my right, then came forward, getting inside his
guard. I crashed Cleaveheart's basket-hilt into his face. The
blow staggered him and drove him to his knees.

I leaped above the weak return slash, then whipped my
blade up and out, catching him on the collarbone. I sliced
velvet and the flesh beneath it at his right shoulder. Like my
wound I knew it would sting, but it would not hamper
him. Dancing back away, I brought my blade back into my
guard. "That's one cut."

Berengar wiped away blood from his split lip with the
back of his left hand. "That makes us even."

"Then I will make you more than even." I waited for
him to regain his feel, then I lunged at his belly. He parried
me down, hard, and I let my blade go with his move, I cut
it back to the right, just missing his knee as he riposted
forward and passed his blade between my ribs and right
arm. His blade started to come up, seeking the artery run-
ning through my armpit. I cocked my wrist, bringing
Cleaveheart's point forward in a stabbing motion at his
eyes, while swinging my body away from his sword.

His cut missed as he reflexively pulled up short to pro-
tect his face- Continuing my spin, I presented my back to

500    Michael A. Stackpole

him for a tantalizing moment. I knew he had to strike at it,
so I cranked my sword down and let it precede me in the
spin. My blade picked up Berengar's forehand slash, but
the weak block did allow his blade to kiss my right flank
and lay open the flesh over my ribs.

Sweat poured fire into the cut, but I did not retreat. As
he pulled his sword back for another, heavier cut, I ducked
and snapped my blade up. His slash passed over my head
as I leaned in toward him and raked my blade obliquely
over his stomach. I sliced a cut open on his belly, by his
right hip, and that made him yelp. Already low, I rolled
back onto my tail and somersaulted back out of his range,
then stood.

"That's two cuts, Berengar."

He growled out a chuckle. "Again we are even. But we
shall not be at the end of this game."

Berengar settled into a guard and wove the point of his
blade through a figure-eight pattern. I kept mine circling,
but brought my hand up so my hilt remained at shoulder
height. My blade pointed at his right knee. I stamped once
with my right foot, then feinted at his leg. He brought his
blade down and around in a tight circular parry, but I
snapped my wrist back. Bringing Cleaveheart back to
where it almost touched my right shoulder, I then lashed it
forward and razored open a wound on his right flank.

"Three cuts,"

Berengar fought back fast. He lunged, then withdrew as
my parry started. I went to riposte, but his blade extended
again in a stop-thrust. I twisted back to my left and
avoided being skewered, but only just barely. His point
ricocheted off a rib, leaving with a cut beneath my left
nipple, and sweat seared into it as well.

As I pulled back, he pressed his attack with short Jabs at
my legs, groin, and belly. Circling, I managed to fend them
off more by moving out of range than by parrying them.
Finally he got me on my left hip with a little stab wound. I
could have parried it with my free hand, but it would have
cost me fingers.

"Four, Neal, four," he snarled at me. Another two jabs
and he opened a wound on my left shoulder that mirrored
the one I had given him. "And that is five."

Once a Hero   501

"Five's not rile game." 1 pulled my left leg back and
drove at him. In his pursuit of me he had begun to move
more laterally than straight forward, so as I came at him, I
hod his full body to target. I lunged at his eyes, then ducked
beneath his slash-parry and slipped my blade around in a
descent. I cut him on the left breast, leaving his jacket
tattered and blood weeping from a flesh wound.

He hissed and wove his silvery blade through a complex
pattern that was more show than threat. At best, coming in
that high and exploiting his reach advantage, all he could
hit was my right shoulder, and he did. His blade bit into
die scar Tashayul had left on my shoulder so long before,
and I cried out as I retreated away from him.

"There, Neal, that's sue. Which of us wit! die marked a
traitor?"

"Which indeed, Berengar." I squared myself to him and
hunched into a crouch. Sweat stung my eyes and set every
cut on my body burning like torches. I shifted my blade so
it covered the center of my body, hilt at my navel and
bloodied point by my eyes. I breathed in through clenched
teeth and took some relief in seeing his chest heave as heav-
ily as mine.

"You are closer than I." His blade started into a
knotwork pattern. "Here is seven."

For the sake of symmetry I knew he would go for my
throat, navel, or right hip, since he was intent on mirroring
die pattern of the Haladin ritual. Right hip seemed most
likely, and his blade began the journey toward it. I did not
move, did not begin my parry until Berengar had commit-
ted fully and could not withdraw his attack. In he came, his
goal unguarded.

Unguarded and, suddenly, unavailable. I dropped down
and pushed off with my left foot. Sliding forward on my
knees and twisting beneath his lunge, I got inside and
thrust up through his body. Cleaveheart pierced him at the
left hip and angled up. It scraped along inside his chest,
then bounced off his right shoulder blade and punched out
at his right shoulder. Overextended in his futile lunge, his
body continued forward and began to fall on me. I shoul-
dered him off to my right, landing him hard on his right
flank.

502    Michael A. Stackpole

His blade clattered on the marble inlay as it fell from
his hand. Cleaveheart, torn from my grasp, rang dully
when the hilt hit the floor. Berengar rolled over on his
back, his jaw working furiously. Blood bubbled up in his
mouth in the place of words and ran down either side of
his face. His body shook once, the spine arching, then he
lay very still.

His unseeing eyes stared up at the knotted sleeves in the
cabinet.

To the south I heard the sound of snapping wood and
breaking glass before people started screaming. The crowd
parted and I saw Stulklirn shake himself, spraying glass
from the shattered remains or the garden doors. Behind me
I heard the rustle of Gena's gown, but I held up my empty
hands to forestall either one of them coming to my aid.

My gesture also served to still the conversation in the
room.

I stood slowly, uncoiling myself like a monster new
risen from a long sleep, for that really was what I felt I had
become. I let the anger burning inside of me infuse my
voice. "Aurdon was a city conceived in evil, and it has not
escaped it."

"That's right," shouted a Riveren. "The Fishers accuse
us of treachery, but it's their Berengar that was bad."

I skewered him with a stare. "Ah, and you claim the
Riverens never did use their influence with the Haladina to
bedevil the Fishers? You know you did, and that is just as
treacherous."

A Fisher shook a fist at me. "How can you claim to be
the judge of what is treachery and what is not when you
cheated in this fight?"

I let my shock play over my face. "I cheated?"

"Yes, you were not to the eighth cut when you killed
him."

"Only an idiot born of idiots would have assumed I
would use a Haladin ritual on someone who was not
Haladin."

"Yes, but clearly you meant to do that. You broke the
rules!"

"Rules? Rules!" I reached over and ripped Cleaveheart
from Berengar's body. "Rules are for games. That fight was




Once a Hero

503

not a game. Berengar's decision to interpret my remarks as
implying rules means nothing." I slashed the blade in a vast
arc, splattering party-goers from the Fishers to the Riverens
and leaving a track of crimson droplets to course down the
cabinet's glass. "But, then, that has always been the prob-
lem with the Fishers and the Riverens, hasn't it? You al-
ways interpret in your own way what I have stated clearly
in mme. This was not a game. None of it, not now, not five
hundred years ago, and not during the intervening- years. I
am not Haiadina concerned with Eight Cuts.

"I am Neal, and you will finally come to understand
what that means."

I pointed to the knotted sleeves. "Five hundred years
ago I stood in this place when Aurium was little more than
a squalid village. The Fishers and the Riveravens were
ready to slaughter each other over what was then a collec-
tion of longhouses surrounding a small stone hall. None of
you would recognize what you have here in what I saw
•with my eyes, but by all the gods, you'd recognize your
ancestors because they were as petty and shortsighted as all
of you are now."

I glanced back at Gena and saw her watching me
strangely. I did not know what she was thinking or even if
Aarundel had told her about this night's analog, but I
hoped she would stay with me and play along with me. I
tried to communicate that to her with my eyes, but I did
not know if she understood, so I just pushed on.

"That night, so long ago. Lady Genevera's grandfather
and Stulklirn's great-great-grandfather stood by me, so it is
fitting they are here tonight. Back then we were set to slay
all the Fishers and all the Riverens because we knew they
could not live in peace with each other. But because there
were innocents among them, and because we had a war to
fight against the Reithrese, we relented and found a com-
promise.

"That compromise, clearly, was a mistake." I snarled at
all of them. "I have lain in my tomb for five centuries, and
the only disturbance of my rest came from here, from
Aurdon. Someone plots to kill someone else, so I must in-
tervene. I am forced to act well beyond the time when I
should be called upon to do so."

504   Michael A. StackpoU

I hesitated as I sorted through the various tales I had     , . ;,,
heard the day before. "Victor Riveren decides to kill Ha-     i ^ . -
raid Fisher over a boatload of raw wool, so I have to pitch
him down some stairs. Lucretia Fisher plots to poison
Deryl Riveren, and I have to force her own draught down      , ^ ,
her throat. And now, this time, the Riverens are using the      . -J
Haladina to destroy the Fishers, and the Fishers want to     i .^
build an empire using Riveren bones as the foundation.      ^" '
This plotting is so widespread, my intervention as a ghost       ;

would not suffice. For this I had to come back to life'.        \ \

"This does not please me." I nodded to Gena and to
Stulklirn. "I have the descendants of my allies at the first      |.
visit with me here for a reason. Stutklim, as Shijef had      i?'.
agreed to do, please make certain no one leaves this room."     i -;,

Stulklirn stood up to his full height and physically
blocked the doors to the garden.

I looked at Gena. "And you, with your magicks, you
will be able to slay the old quickly, and I will start with the
young."

An older Riveren man pointed at me with a palsied
hand. "This is preposterous! You cannot get away with
such murder!"

"Can I not?" I stared incredulously at the lot of them.
**I am Neal Roclawzi! I am the Knight-Defender of the
Empire. I can slay each and every one of you and then
simply send a note to the emperor telling him it was neces-
sary. He will forgive me- Moreover, last time I had better
things to do than to spend my time killing you foolish peo-
ple off. Not so, this time.

"You have to remember, I am five centuries out of my
time. I have no ties, no duties, no one I know, and no one
to visit. If I slaughter the lot of you, I can claim your wealth
for myself. By the beard of Herin, I was walking in your
city yesterday, and I know from talking with the citizens
that if I skim you from the top, the people out there will
happily proclaim me their lord. With your money and the
soldiers you brought to Aurdon, I could even choose to
make the emperor abdicate in my favor."

I let myself go. I gestured wildly as I spoke. I fed off
their fear and their vanity. I let them imagine their own
sins, and I suggested I was there to punish them. I let them

Once a Hero   505

know that the doom their ancestors had delayed had re-
turned to swallow them whole.

"The opportunity represented by those knotted sleeves
was the only alternative your people were offered to death.
One by one, piecemeal, you have rejected the bargain
Struck that night, and you have paid as individuals. You all
know it's true, and you have all feared seeing my shade
when you plotted and dreamed. Now it is worse because I
have been called from the grave and I have with me now
the blade that longed to drink your blood centuries ago."

"But the Knott family died out," someone pleaded.

"Ah, but my proscription against fighting with each
other did not! Are you people stupid? Did you think the
deaths of your kin were random events, superstition?
When I make an oath, it is not broken- When individuals
plotted against each other, I could take one or two lives
and be satisfied that my honor had been upheld, but now,
now you plot to conquer nations. The prize was bigger, the
dishonor greater, and the penalty must be commensurately
larger!"

Gena's features sharpened into an inhuman mask when
she scowled. "You have heard Neal Gustos Sylvanii. As he
has said, so it will be." She casually gestured backward
toward one of the windows in the eastern wall. The
wooden lattice holding glass in place exploded in fire,
spraying flame and glass out into the darkness. Another
magickal spark sailed off through the middle of the confla-
gration, but I soon lost sight of it. I nodded to her and she
smiled most cruelly. "We will need ventilation, for the san-
guine aroma from termination will be overwhelming."

"Leave it to a sylvanesti to think of these details." I
turned toward the assembly. "If the youngest would line up
here on my left and the eldest here on my right, we shall
begin."

"We can rush them," I heard someone cry, but before I
could even begin to think of a counter that would forestall
that winning strategy, the sun dawned very bright and very
early to the east. It rose fast and shrank as it did, but by the
time the fiery sphere had begun to dwindle significantly, a
horrible roar and fierce rumbling echoed over the land-

506 Michael A. Stackffole

scape. The ground shook and the chandeliers started sway-
ing back and forth.

I looked from the windows to Gena and back again-

She shook her head, her eyes and voice as strong as they
were implacable. "Berengar's weapons' store at Lake Orvir
exists no more."

That display of raw power cowed the crowd. They be-
gan to shuffle toward the ends of the room I had indicated
earlier; then Floris Fisher stepped from the crowd. "I'll be
damned if I will let you slay my family, I will fight you, if I
must, to prevent it."

I brought my head up and gave him a sidelong glance.
"Would you do something even more difficult than face me
across a sword?"

He came to attention. "I consider the sacrifice of my life
nothing if it will save my family."

"I see." I looked over at the Riverens and pointed
Cleaveheart at a comely young girl. "You see her?"

"I do."

"She is yours."

Floris shook his head. "I will not murder her to save
even my life."

I smiled genuinely at him. "Good, for another Fisher
slaying a Riveren would displease me even more than I am
displeased now. She is yours to be your wife, to unite your
families again."

Floris looked stunned. "But that is what you did last
time. You said the penalty had to be greater."

"And so it shall be." I shifted the point of my sword to
indicate a raven-haired woman among the Fishers who had
been a favorite subject of gossips during my travels- "You
are?"

"Martina, my lord."

"Good- Martina, Titus Riveren is now your husband!"

She shook her head adamantly. "He is just a boy."

"Then perhaps you can make him into a Man." I met
her dagger stare with a grin. "And perhaps he can make
you into something other than a milk-bathing repository of
vanity."

That brought a blush to her face and a hearty laugh
from the rest of the crowd. Titus looked up from the

Once a Hero   507

ground and wiped his face with his sleeve, smearing blood
across both.

I looked hard at Martina. "Woman, see to your hus-
band. Now!"

As she reluctantly crossed the floor, I addressed the rest
of them. "This is how it shall be from this time forward.
Any eligible Fisher will wed a Riveren and vice versa. All
' families thus united will be known as Knotts. All the
wealth of all the families shall be commingled and shared.
All business dealings will be held in common between the
Fishers and Riverens until there are no more Fishers and
Riverens, but only Knotts. That is the way it shall be, be-
cause I have no desire to return here in five hundred years
or a thousand years or ever. If I am forced to, I shall not
stay my hand."

I lowered my voice, and the background noise in the
room sank appropriately. "Go, call your priests and sanc-
tify these unions. Do it now1. This second chance at life I
give you because I have a second life. Let none of you give
me cause to return a third time."

Epilogue

Night's Adventure
in Aurdon

Winter
A.R. 499
The Present
My S36th Year

Standing in the darkened gardens of the Fisher estate, the
cold winter night air leech-sucked warmth from me. The
holes in my clothing made that easy, though the bandages
over my wounds meant the cold did have 10 work a bit.
Still, the chill did sink into my joints and bones as I leaned
on my elbows on the stone balustrade that ringed the gar-
den. Despite the flickering lights in the city below me, the
shadows moving through the streets, and the strains of sol-
emn wedding music from the gathering back in the ball-
room, nothing felt truly alive to me. It seemed as if I had
begun to slip back into my tomb, with my awareness of the
outside world slowly evaporating the way light drains from
the day at dusk.

A very cynical part of me wanted to believe I actually
had been an avenging ghost over the past five hundred
years. I wanted to lay claim to the righteous anger I had
shown the people back in the mansion. I wanted to shake

Once a Hero   509

if",

^•my head and speak to all the people who had fought for
^freedom as my allies, complaining to them that our sacn-
^. fees had been forgotten because nothing changes and peo-
|1 pie are no better now than we were then.

^   I could not do that because I knew it was not true. I did
^know that the Riverens had forged an alliance with the
VVHalad1113 as a way to destroy the Fishers without engaging
^.A'^.them directly, and they had done this without any intention
•^-i of seeing the Haladina as true Men. Still, by inviting them
^'"Bito their city, by trading with them, working with them,
and learning how they lived, the Riverens demystified the
Haladina. The people of Aurdon helped humanize the im-
age of the Haladina. Over time, over generations, that
could lead to relations that would mean the Haladina
might no longer raid in Centisia.

Only a fool would suggest the change would be easy,
but the Elven change toward Men showed the change
could take place. The Elven change and the change in atti-
tudes toward the Haladina could mean the world would be
a better place than the one I had known, or the one I was
coming to know now.

I heard the light crunch of gravel and smiled without
turning around. "Your destruction of Orvir was very con-
vincing at a time when we needed to be convincing."

Gena came to stand beside me with her arms folded
across her chest. "I am pleased you approved."

I shifted to lean on my left forearm and left hip so I
could watch her, then shifted a bit to relieve the pressure
on the holes I had in me at each point. "You played along
well with what I was doing. I had been afraid you would
think me crazy."

She smiled, dispelling some of the chill. "My grandfa-
ther, in recounting your exploits here the first time, men-
tioned something called the Codex Mercenanus. I did not
know if you planned to actually kill people in there—and I
hoped you were not—but I am not certain I would have
stopped you if you had."

"Only Berengar needed killing. He was the most ambi-
tious, and not everyone agreed with him and his plans. I
suspect he had his brother, Lord Orvir, killed when his

510    Michael A. Stackpole

lordship discovered the foundry, flashdrakes, and powder-
store at his lake estate."

"So Berengar's giving Rik Orvir's ring to prove he had
the right to carry his flashdrakes was a joke?"

"I suppose so. I am actually surprised Berengar did not
lecture us more on his plans for empire—the ego needed to
come up with the sort of plan he did is not one that shies
from bragging."

Gena looked out over the city, the light breeze toying
with strands of her hair. "He actually did, once, when I
pressed him. It seemed like idle conversation at the time—
something to make the miles move more quickly as we
rode to Jarudin. He was secretive. I had no clue that he
wanted Cleaveheart to win an empire before, but now that
I think of it, he was always insistent on getting the sword,
and not as concerned with finding Wasp."

I shrugged. "I suspected something wrong when I heard
the Haladina had not looted your Durriken's body and
again when you gave no indication he was a Hatadina, yet
he was killed with Eight Cuts." My shrug had shifted my
weight so my hip hurt, and as I moved to get comfortable, I
hit the cut on my left forearm on the balustrade. I turned
and sat my rump on the cold stone and frowned. "Even the
whispers in the city didn't fully explain everything. What it
all came down to was Berengar's desire to get his hands on
Cleaveheart."

"I am glad you did not surrender the sword to him."
Gena shook her head as I squirmed a bit in getting settled
in my new position. "I could heal your cuts, you know. I
took care of Titus, and I am still able to help you."

I shook my head. "These will make six nice new scars.
When I'm old . . ."

Her eyebrow arched.

". . . older, I mean, in body as well as age, these scars
will be worth many drinks and meals in some tavern some-
where."

She snorted politely and refrained from laughing. "Are
you certain?"

"I've never . . . well, never intentionally had magick
reverse the trouble I've gotten myself into. At five hundred
and thirty-six I think I am a bit old to change my ways."

Once a Hero   511

"I see." She watched me carefully, her violet eyes pick-
ing up an ethereal glow in the backlight from the ballroom.
"I think I would apologize again for having saved you,
having used magick to heal you, but I am not sorry for
having done so."

1 shrugged, then winced. "You were not given much
choice in the matter."

"Even if I had known, I don't think that would have
stopped me." She glanced back at the ballroom and hugged
her arms around herself more tightly. "If you had not been
here, Berengar would now be leading a mob through the
streets of Aurdon, and the streets would be running with
Riveren and Haladin blood."

I heard the serious tone in her voice, but still felt com-
pelled to disagree. "Someone else would have stopped
him."

"Perhaps, but not so soon. As an Elf, I can still speak
with my grandfather and know the horror of the battles
fought five centuries ago. In growing up in Cygestolia, I
saw the pain caused by the need to destroy the Reithrese. I
have seen the faces of warriors haunted by what they did.
I know of atrocities and murders, and I know they were
terrible. For the people back in the ballroom, the winning
of the empire came seventeen generations ago. As you
pointed out to me, the truth of what you fought for had
been forgotten, and because it had been forgotten, a par-
ody of it would have been played out on the world stage."

"And yet, because I was here and I remembered, it will
not be."

She glanced down at the sword hanging by my side.
"Unless you decide to win yourself an empire."

I laughed. "Done that, and it wasn't much fun." I
winked at her. "Don't know as how I can forgive you for
using magick on me, but if you don't want to be sorry for
the reason you stated, I'm thinking you have every right to
be proud and happy of your choice."

"That's not the only reason I'm not sorry." Her voice
caught a bit, and she almost went on to add to her state-
ment, but she stopped and looked out at the city again.

She didn't need to say anything more, because I thought
I knew what she was going to say. "There are other reasons

512    Michael A. Stackpole

not to be sorry, Gena. I, for one, am happy to have seen
your grandfather again, and your grandmother, and to
have met you."

"You do not have to say that, Neal."

"I'm not. You remind me very much of your grand-
aunt."

Gena's hands came down to her sides, and her hands
knotted into fists. "I know, and I am sorry."

"Sorry?"

"Because that hurts you because I am not her."

Thoughts and memories I had pushed aside white trying
to puzzle out Berengar's game came flooding back into my
head. "Larissa and I, we ... I mean, what we had, we
knew, was, uh . . . when we spoke of ... when she saw
you ..." I stopped and shook my head. "I am not doing
this very well."

She looked up at me and choked back tears, but said
nothing.

I twisted the bracelet from my right wrist and held it
up. "When Larissa gave this to you, what did she say?"

Gena sniffed once, then forced her hands open. "She
told me she was going beyond and then handed the brace-
let to me. I knew what it was, but I never thought she
would give it up. She said, *I want you to remember, I have
chosen you for this. You are my choice.'" Her head came
up. "Does that mean something?"

I nodded for a bit until my throat opened enough to let
words out. "We knew, as we traveled from Jarudin to
Cygestolia for the ceremony involving your father's .con-
ception, that we two could never be together. Larissa could
not bear the idea that her bloodline and my bloodline
would die out. She made me promise that when she found
someone for me . . * she wanted our progeny to have a
chance at the happiness we could not know."

I took her left hand in mine and slipped the bracelet
onto her wrist. "She wanted you to have this, and so do I."

Gena settled it on her arm, then looked up at me. "And
she wanted me for you. Do you want that as well?"

"I see the sylvanestt have become even more direct over
the last five centuries."

Once a Hero   513

We both laughed, but when we stopped, a heavy silence
pressed in on me.

I smiled at Gena. "Larissa was very special to me, and
you to her. I respect her choice, but I want to respect you as
well. I'm thinking that had we not learned a lot about each
other on the road, in Jarudin and here, and if there were no
attraction between us, we'd not be having this conversa-
tion. I am willing to explore the matter further, if you are."

She gave my hand a squeeze. "I am."

I nodded, then winced.

"Pain?"

"In a way. I was just thinking how protective your
grandfather was of Larissa. I imagine he's more so of you."

Gena pursed her lips. "I'm thinking you can handle
him."

"True enough, I did beat him in jammaq, and that was
when he had two eyes."

She stepped close and kissed me, then kissed me again.
Her lips tasted sweet, and to my surprise, I didn't wonder if
this was what it would have been like to kiss Larissa. In-
stead I wondered about what it would be like to steal an-
other kiss from Gena.

Settling my arms around her slender waist, I pulled her
to me and—scandal though it might have been somewhere
in time—kissed her with all the enthusiasm appropriate for
a man of my years kissing a sylvanestt half my age.

About the Author

Michael A. Stackpole is an award-winning game and com-
puter game designer who was born in 1957 and grew up in
Burlington, Vermont. In 1979 he graduated from the Uni-
versity of Vermont with a BA in History. In his career as a
game designer he has done work for Flying Buffalo, Inc.,
Interplay Productions, TSR, Inc., FASA Corp., Hero
Games and Game Designers Workshop.

In his spare time he watches far too much television,
serves as the Executive Director of the Phoenix Skeptics
and plays indoor soccer on the Blue Thunder team. He
likes a variety of cuisines including, but not limited to,
Mexican, Chinese, Japanese and Thai- While a good cook,
lie believes in supporting the pizza delivery industry for the
'good of the economy.

Once a Hero is the fourteenth novel he has written. In
•the future he plans to write more novels and to start a
Twelve-Step program for those who wish to eliminate dan-
gling modifiers from their prose.