“Eventor is not Sarak-Nul. We’ve been told. .”
“We were told the goblins wouldn’t be living in the southern chambers of the Falcon’s Nest,” I reminded her.
“This is different,” she said, coming close to me and speaking straight into my face. “The sooner we reach the White City, the sooner we can come back with a force to help us get Mithos and Orgos out. We can’t take the chance of another two or three days on the road.”
“And if we don’t get through?”
“We don’t get through,” she said, shrugging. “But at least we tried.”
And there it was, Renthrette’s good old lust for glory and honor, that never-say-die spirit that led her to endure, no, to seek out, against-all-odds situations where she could put her neck on the line for a righteous cause. Unfortunately, there always seemed to be other necks involved, the owners of which (take me, for example) were less convinced of the value of principled martyrdom. Not that this ever mattered to her.
“Then let’s start moving,” I said, knowing better than to keep backing a three-legged horse. Her eyes held mine and a flicker of doubt rippled across them. Then she smiled, pleased-impressed, even. And then she walked away, a little spring in her step as I, knowing that my resignation had somehow been misread as resolve akin to her own, felt unaccountably guilty for not clarifying matters. But she didn’t smile at me that often these days, and when she did, it usually meant she was thinking about something else and I had just happened to be there, so I let it go.
Four days after passing through the Hostile Hamlet, we stepped into the forest of Eventor. I wished Orgos was with us, for his smile and his singing voice as much as for his sword. But Eventor wasn’t all bad. The night had been colder than before and the wind had picked up so that even I was glad of the shelter the trees gave us. The grass in the open had been frosty this morning, but the forest was dry and felt warm by comparison. While many of the trees were hardwoods and therefore bare, there were enough conifers of various shapes and sizes to keep the forest green and touched with life in defiance of the winter. The horses snorted and steamed softly with what I took to be pleasure or a sense of relief. Overhead in the canopied air, songbirds fluttered about, twittering to themselves. No maniacal starlings, hawks, or lunatic cries-just birds, small and pretty and generally barely worth noticing. I, with my new appreciation for wildlife that didn’t approach with vast, slavering jaws, noticed.
That evening we rested in a glade where copper beeches stood, still clinging to their oddly metallic leaves. The horses had browsed happily, and we had made a fire (or Renthrette had), cooked (likewise), and eaten (I helped). We were now sitting quietly as the last light dwindled and the stars, just visible glinting through the sparser branches above, came out cold and clear.
I told a story. She didn’t ask for one, and the last time I had told one she had come as close as ever before to slitting my throat, but we had been getting on better of late, so I gave it a shot. I chose something that would appeal to her, all knights and monsters, chivalry, and tests of loyalty and truth. She sat silently and watched the fire as I spoke-listening, I think, though she may have been thinking of other things. When I finished, she didn’t move for a while, then she wished me good night and got ready for bed. I hadn’t leaped to the front of her list of personal heroes, but seemed at least back in favor. For reasons I was not exactly sure of, this pleased me.
Renthrette had wrapped herself tight in a blanket and curled up like a kitten by the fire. Her hair fell across her sleeping face and, touched as it was by the flame-light, flickered like molten brass and copper running together in the finest streams imaginable. A little overly lyrical, perhaps, but not an altogether inappropriate image, since she had a good deal of fire about her even when just walking around in broad daylight. She could stand in a drenching rain and still light a fire with her glance. I felt it constantly, and while it could be appealing in a hopelessly unattainable way, the version I got was usually the red-hot-plowshare-on-the-bum kind of heat.
I was ruminating on this, and considering the heat that might break out of her if I could somehow convince her that I was her long lost handsome prince and not the septic rat-tail she had taken me for, when I heard the distinctive sound of whistling. It was a musical whistle, a snatch of an old Thrusian melody delivered with expert and easy confidence. I wheeled, pulled up my crossbow, and stared into the darkness of the wood, locating the sound at the same moment that I saw the man stepping unhurriedly toward me. I raised my weapon and he came on unabashed. Then the firelight picked him out.
“Orgos!” I exclaimed. “What the?. .”
“Sorry to surprise you, Will,” said the black man, smiling broadly so that his teeth shone. And there he was, large as life, tall and strong as ever, clad in his black armor with russet tunic and trousers beneath, his two long cutting swords strapped across his back so that their hilts stood proud on his shoulders like horns. He was the original sight for sore eyes.
“How the hell did you get out?” I began, approaching him quickly and slapping my hand into his. “God, it’s good to see you!”
“You, too, old friend,” he replied, laughing.
“How’s Mithos?” I spluttered, swallowing back something almost like the proverbial lump in the throat. Probably a remnant of dinner.
“Almost completely recovered,” he beamed, slipping a casual arm about my shoulders with that familiar ease of his. Relief and the courage which had always emanated from him blended and coursed through me.
“I can’t believe it!” I exclaimed, hugging him again. “I thought. .”
“What?”
I laughed and shrugged it off.
“So what are you doing here and how did you escape?” I demanded again, smiling wide.
“Sorrail sent a cavalry unit to get us out and I immediately came looking for you. Fortunately you aren’t too tough to track, and I knew where you entered the forest and when. It was just a matter of time before I found you.”
“What’s the hurry?” I said, observing the concern in his face.
“We have to get out of here. Not just the wood, the whole country, the region itself. We have to get back on the road and head south for as long as it takes, and we must leave this place to its own troubles.”
“But the goblins. .”
“There are dark forces at work here, Wilclass="underline" things we cannot comprehend and are too feeble to influence. Our first encounter with the goblins should have told us that much. There is power here, the kind of power we might call magic, and those who live here wield it. We don’t. We are just people, and our blades are insufficient. We must leave while we still can.”
I sat down by the fire to think, glancing over to where Renthrette lay motionless.
“Let her sleep,” said Orgos, as if reading my thoughts. “She needs the rest. We have a long journey home ahead of us.”
He was quite right, of course, and I was, I confess, relieved to hear him say it. The idea of leaving had been in the back of my mind since we arrived, but it didn’t appear to have occurred to anyone else. I kept it quiet because from me such a remark would mean cowardly flight, while from the others it was tactical withdrawal.
And I, who have spent my life fleeing, was suddenly unsure. Orgos wanted us to run for our lives because we were less powerful than our enemies? Since when? I thought for a moment, and something struck me.
“When we left Stavis,” I said, my eyes fixed on the dying fire, “you were virtually unarmed. Your equipment was back in the Hide. You had one of your swords. Now you have both of them again.”
I looked at him quickly and his expression was blank. “I don’t have them,” he said, apparently confused. “This is all I have, the blade I had when you saw me last.”