Alan Foster - Krull

"You are surrounded by a hundred men," he informed Colwyn. "Throw down your weapons and surrender your money."

Colwyn dismounted to study his challenger. "A hundred is not enough."

That brought forth an amused smile. "Well, well, what have we here? A fighter?" He looked curiously at Colwyn, then at Ynyr. "A welcome change from the usual quavering traveler. A few moments diversion, they say, is refreshing for the soul."

"I would agree with you, were I not in a hurry. If we are to talk of souls, stranger, have a care for your own, lest it find itself liberated sooner than you think. And if it's pleasurable diversion you intend, you're short about ninety men."

The man laughed good-humoredly. "Not only a fighter, but a counter too!"

A second man stepped out of the fog. His expression was sour, his attitude one of irritated boredom. He was stocky and rotund, but Colwyn could see the muscle beneath the fat. His hand held a peculiar and lethal-looking bolo.

"What is this small talk? Idle chatter is for idle men. Kill them and be done with it, Torquil."

"Softly go, Rhun." The man named Torquil was studying the nonchalant horseman cautiously. "I don't kill without reason."

"Nor do I," Colwyn assured him, eyeing the one called Rhun with unconcealed distaste. "The both of you can be thankful for that."

Rhun took a step forward, brandishing the bolo. It was designed not for bringing down fleeing fowl, but for killing.

"Interesting toy you have there, friend. Take another step toward me and you'd best be certain of its use."

The heavyset man held his ground and continued to eye Colwyn threateningly. Strong and skillful, Colwyn decided, but tending to the impetuous. The one to concentrate on was the apparent leader, Torquil.

Then he noticed something else: Torquil wore iron manacles on his wrists. In the fog it had been difficult to tell if they were wrist shields, decorative bracelets, or something else. Now he could see that the combative Rhun wore identical manacles. Several links of heavy chain dangled from one.

"You are escaped prisoners." It was not a question.

Nor did Torquil try to deny it. He grinned and gestured into the fog where the rest of his band waited. "Say rather, misunderstood citizens. Society has frowned on our actions, sir. But in essence you are correct. We are that, each and every man of us. Thieves, bandits, tax avoiders, brawlers, stealers of favors from men and women both. Vagabonds forced to eke out a living any way we can."

"Desperate men, I should say. That's quite a litany of offenses, though much was evident from first sight of you."

"Beauty is not necessary to our profession. Aye, we're as desperate as you'll ever set eyes upon, traveler… which is one reason we are not to be trifled with. If you will put your hand away from that fine sword of yours, it will not be necessary for us to demonstrate to you just how desperate we can be.

"As for our appearance, I make no apologies. The life of a fugitive is constrained by circumstance, which smells pestiferously in our case. No, the only thing you can trust in is our desperation."

"Good." Colwyn moved his sword slightly, noted the slight twitch of Torquil's right hand. Fast, he thought. Fast but controlled. "Those are the kind of men I need."

"You need?" Torquil tried to laugh again, but he was a little confused and his heart wasn't in it. This was not the usual sort of confrontation he and his followers were accustomed to. Trembling in fear was normal. A quick hand-over of any valuables without bloodshed, that was typical. Oh rare occasions some fool resisted, and every such confrontation had ended in the same way.

But this stranger's casual demeanor was unsettling. It implied confidence and knowledge. It bothered Torquil. There was no sign they were preparing to flee, either.

And then there was this odd talk about followers. Torquil continued to study his confident young opponent. He certainly didn't have the look of a thief. If he was, he displayed strange taste in henchmen: one little fool full of braggadocio and one quiet old man. Odd too the way the old man seemed supremely indifferent to the whole discussion, as though the weather and the terrain ahead were more important than whatever Torquil and his band might try.

It was all very much out of the ordinary, and Torquil hadn't kept his neck intact this long by rushing blindly into inexplicable situations. His sword hand itched. He had to make a decision soon. Back in the woods Bardolph and Kegan must be fingering the triggers of their crossbows nervously, wondering at the delay. Something kept him from giving the attack signal.

In the presence of indecision, he chose to stall. He gestured toward the trees. "These men follow no man but me, and I follow no man at all. There are no men left in this world worth following. So I am sorry to have to decline your offer, stranger, but you'll have to seek help elsewhere. After you've handed over your money, that is."

"I do not blame you for what you say. Truly there are few men worth following. But would you not follow a king?"

Torquil squinted at the rider. Nearby Sweyn was muttering, "I grow tired of this discourse, Torquil. Let's finish them before some other garrulous fools come along and increase our risk."

"Hold your guts." He kept his eyes on Colwyn. "There are plenty of lunatics wandering the countryside claiming to be kings. We live in times that seem to encourage such idiocy. Such folk prey on the fears of the credulous. I am not credulous. Neither are my men."

"You have not answered my question: would you not follow a king?"

"Perhaps, though I've had nothing from kings but ill."

Colwyn smiled. "A common complaint, often justified. A king is often too distanced from his people. Blame him not for the occasional excesses of minor bureaucrats. Answer me, man. Would you follow a king to the Black Fortress?"

At that Torquil relaxed, smiled at Sweyn. "See? I told you. You worry too much. We've nothing to fear from these three." He turned back to Colwyn. "I confess you had me going for a while there, stranger, with your facile chatter of kings and followers. You play neat with words, but now I know that you're a lunatic. The Black Fortress!" He and Sweyn silently shared the grim joke.

"I wouldn't follow my own father to the Black Fortress, stranger. Not that he'd be fool enough to go there. Even if it could be reached, there's nothing to be found there save death and destruction, and those I can find in more manageable quantities right here. D'you think I'm as mad as you, that I'd flee civil war in order to meet a worse death than any captain of guards could mete out?"

"Is it mad," Colwyn asked softly, "to want to defend your world?"

"World? What is this talk of a 'world'? Once I had a village to call home. A warlord burned it to the ground. Now I have no home, and certainly no 'world.' "

"All Krull suffers at the hands of the Slayers."

"All Krull suffers at the hand of winter," Rhun snapped mockingly, "but we don't try to fight the seasons. We'd fare as well if we went against the Slayers."

"It's true the Slayers are different from ordinary warriors, but they are mortal. They can be slain."

"So what?" Torquil challenged him. "Kill a Slayer and ten more appear to avenge him."

"All the Slayers come from the lair of the Beast, which is the Black Fortress. Defeat the Beast and you defeat all the Slayers."

"You talk more foolishness."

"Is it foolish to fight for your homes and families? Is it foolish to fight for your children's sake? If that's not worth fighting for, what is? If these invaders conquer, you won't even keep the independence of escaped prisoners, for all men will become prisoners."

"Noble sentiments," said a new voice as its owner showed himself, "except that we fight for profit. Gold—that's worth fighting for." Murmurs of assent sounded from the rocks. Not many, Colwyn thought. Certainly far fewer than a hundred. Perhaps no more than a dozen.