Alan Foster - Krull

"Where is the profit in your fight?" the man asked.

"The profit is freedom," Colwyn told him, "and fame."

"Freedom we have," Torquil replied, "and fame is an empty purse. Count it and go broke, eat it and go hungry, seek it and go mad. Fame is what fools yearn for and wise men shun."

Ynyr turned in his saddle and spoke for the first time. To those who had never heard the old man speak, there was a peculiarly arresting quality to his soft, cutting tone. Torquil and his followers listened in spite of themselves.

"Fame is what you leave to your children."

Torquil gaped at him, tried to see through the white-haired figure straddling the other horse. "You know nothing of me. How did you know I have children?"

"I know many things."

"Save us," Rhun grumbled tiredly. "Not another wise man. They afflict the earth these days as badly as would-be kings."

"I know of your children," Ynyr explained, "because of the way your eyes move when you speak of homes. I know of your children because of the way you stand and the way your lips and tongue curl round certain words and phrases. I know of them because of the inflection in your voice and the distant mistiness in your eyes when you say the word.

"I tell you that there is no future for them in a world controlled and ravaged by the Beast and his creatures. There is no safety for them, nowhere to hide, no future for them to look forward to. You say you have freedom? That is foolish talk indeed. You are slaves already, just as we are, for all that you may choose to ignore the chains that bind you. Time now for men of bravery to act. Time now to break those chains so that children may mature in ignorance of them."

"If the Slayers conquer all Krull," Colwyn added, seeing how Ynyr's words had shaken the bandit chief, "your children will be enslaved forever."

"Words." Torquil wrestled with an inner demon. "You twist words like a solicitor. How much is truth and how much built on this accursed fog, I cannot tell."

"What are we to do, Torquil?" asked an impatient, uncertain voice from behind a dead oak.

"Aye, the old man makes sense," said another.

"Shut up, you idiots, before the one who carries his sword as carefully as a swaddling babe learns each of your positions!" The woods went quiet.

But one of Torquil's band didn't wait for his chiefs decision. The slim youth who stepped forward looked out of place alongside such experienced ruffians as Torquil and Sweyn. You had to look deeply into his eyes to see the pain and torment of an unhappy life, of events that had driven him into such company. Torquil frowned but said nothing.

"My name is Oswyn," the youth declared. "I am no chief and I have no children, but I do have a mind of my own." He glanced across at Torquil. "The old man speaks truth. I do think he uses his tongue not to twist words but to impart them. I have been a slave too long already." He looked up at Colwyn and lowered his voice.

"I will go with you. I have seen what the Slayers do to helpless villages and people. I would rather die fighting them with a sword in my hand."

"Thank you," said Colwyn gratefully. He looked off into the woods as he fingered his father's medallion, his eyes searching trees and rocks. "I need men to follow me. Men who are not afraid of Slayers or their own feelings. This boy is more man than any of you who hide behind selfish desires and trees. He shames you all."

The key he removed from the obverse of the medallion was small but solid and very complex in design. He was taking a chance, he knew, in showing it to the desperate men who confronted him, but it seemed like a worthwhile risk. If they fought and he died here, they would likely discover it anyway. Neighboring kingdoms cooperated in such matters and this bog was not far from Turold. It seemed reasonable to assume that the key would work.

"Oswyn, give me your wrists." Uncertain but unafraid, the youth moved close. Colwyn slipped the key into the lock on the boy's right manacle and twisted. For a second nothing happened, but a little determined jiggling was rewarded by a gratifyingly loud snap. The manacle was rusty and full of grime. He repeated the action with the left band.

Oswyn backed away, rubbing his freed wrists and looking repeatedly from them to his benefactor. Colwyn sat back on his horse and tried to present a properly regal appearance. He was not very good at it and he kept one hand on the hilt of his sword.

The youth hesitated, still watching Colwyn, then bent and picked up the pair of opened manacles. He turned and wordlessly heaved them as far into the fog as he could. A distant splash told where they fell. When he turned back to Colwyn again, he was smiling.

Torquil had watched closely. Now he frowned thoughtfully up at Colwyn from beneath heavy brows, still not quite willing to countenance what his own eyes had just seen.

After a long moment he finally murmured carefully, "Only a king or a lord marshal would have keys to manacles like these, and you don't look much like a lord marshal. You're giving it a good try up on that fine horse, but somehow it doesn't suit you."

Colwyn relaxed in the saddle and grinned. "No, I guess it doesn't. You're right, fellow. I'm no lord marshal."

Torquil rubbed at his whiskers. "Matter of fact, what you do look like is about the right age to be the son of a certain king."

"Anything's possible," Colwyn admitted.

"King Turold's son, to be more precise."

"The exact age, in fact."

Torquil sighed and shook his head ruefully. "Ah, Torquil," he mumbled to himself, "it must be that you are growing old. Your brain is softening."

"But not your sword arm or your wits, I'd wager," Colwyn replied.

"I've no love for the kingdom of Turold. Its jails are neither better nor worse than those of any other country," the bandit growled. "Yet I must admit to having spent good times in its towns."

"There will be no more good times in any towns because there will be no towns nor even kingdoms in a few years unless we do away with the Slayers and their master," Colwyn declared firmly.

"Aye, so you say. So many claim. I am not certain I believe that yet, but I believe the rest. King Turold's son is named Colwyn."

"That is my name."

"And you would have us in your service? We hardly have the look of a royal guard." Guffaws came from his companions.

"It is not looks I need," Colwyn told him somberly. "Join me and help me, and you will all have a full pardon and whatever else it is in my power to grant." He reached down with the key. To his surprise, Torquil waved him off.

"Nay. If we succeed, unlock them. Otherwise, I will die with them." He smiled. "These cursed wristlets have already turned more than one sword stroke. Unlike young Oswyn there, I've developed a certain affection for them." He jangled the broken chains, then reached up and accepted the key to pass it to the man standing on his right. "Kegan here feels differently than I do, however."

"That I do, Torquil," said the man, rushing to unlock the manacles. Other men emerged from concealment, eager to make use of the key. "I harbor no fond memories of my iron," he told the man on horseback.

"Colwyn will suffice, Kegan. There are no kings on this journey. Only fighters."

"Rather a fighter defending my back than a king any day," said Kegan. "No offense, m'lor—Colwyn."

Colwyn formed an immediate liking for the man and wondered what terrible circumstance had forced so pleasant a fellow to follow so grim a path. Perhaps he would find out, though such men tended to guard their pasts as zealously as they did their gold.

"Nine like you are worth an army," he said as he inspected each of them in turn. "Soldiers spend too much time on secure, peaceful walls, too much time dreaming away easy nights in comfortable barracks. Each day you do battle with life itself. Soldiers have time to forget what their profession is all about. Like anything else, it is a trade that must be practiced to be perfected."