A. Hartley - Will Power

The leap was poor and I fell short, managing only to gash his leg as I fell. He shrieked with surprise nonetheless and collided awkwardly with the other one who, thinking he was under attack, stabbed blindly with the remains of his spear. The point caught his fellow just above the waist, bringing him to his knees as Renthrette flung herself at the other. They fell together, each clawing for the handle of the axe which had been torn free in the fall. The gray one, sensing I was upon him, turned and looked up. The blade of my knife was already sweeping toward him and his eyes met mine as it stabbed home through his vest. Almost simultaneously, Renthrette seized the axe, raised it and brought it down hard. There was a sickening splitting sound like a bursting melon, then silence.

I sat on the ground breathing hard.

“That was a terrible idea,” said Renthrette after she got her breath back, “that let’s-pretend-there-are-more-of-us thing. I couldn’t believe you actually tried that.”

“It worked, didn’t it?” I reposted.

“Barely,” she answered. “It’s a good thing the goblins weren’t exactly crack troops.”

I gave her a sardonic look. I still hadn’t got to her level of casualness when it came to carnage, and the idea that someone had, however briefly, really wanted to kill me, always left me a little disoriented.

“Never mind. With a bit of luck we’ll get ambushed by some real pros later in the day,” I remarked.

“They must have been a patrol, but they were pretty damn casual given the fact that they were in enemy territory,” she mused, ignoring me. She picked up one of the dead goblin’s spears and looked it over critically. “Odd,” she said.

“What?”

“See this little crosspiece just below the head? That’s to stop it going in too deep. It’s a hunting spear. Which means they’re either just using whatever weapons they can steal regardless of their purpose-always possible for the likes of them, I suppose. . ”

“Or?”

“Or they weren’t a military patrol at all.”

“Hold it,” I said, getting to my feet. “You’re saying they were here hunting for food?”

“There probably isn’t much that lives on their side of the river. Here there are probably deer, wild boar maybe. It’s probably their cheese that you have in your pockets.”

“So you don’t think they were looking for us?”

“I wouldn’t have thought so, no.”

“Well, that’s good,” I said. “I suppose. Still, we had to attack. After all, goblins are goblins, right?”

“Of course,” Renthrette answered, but she didn’t look at me, and seemed strangely preoccupied.

We both fell silent and got on with readying our horses. We didn’t make eye contact at all for a while, though I can’t say what was going on in Renthrette’s mind. I’m not really sure what I was thinking, but there was something, a feeling of anticlimax or uncertainty. I think we both sensed it in each other but chose to keep quiet, holding the feeling at arm’s length as if we were warding off an unpredictable dog.

The forest ended quite suddenly two days later, and Phasdreille-the White City-was visible as soon as we stepped out of the trees. It was still a few miles off but it lay on lower ground and was spread out before us, gleaming pale and beautiful in the afternoon sun. We halted and looked at it, silent and hardly breathing. From here it looked sculpted out of alabaster, walled and towered like the citadel in a fairy tale. I had seen walled cities before but they always seemed so purposeful and strong. This place looked effortlessly unassailable, as imposing as Cresdon or Ironwall, but with a grace, an unearthly dignity that sparkled on its white stone and flashed off the glass in its windows like sunlight on a waterfall. It looked like a city such as might exist above the clouds, ruled by a benign monarch whose daughters sent their suitors on quests for dragons and treasure. . an impossible place.

“Now if we can’t get a decent piece of beef and some strong ale there,” I remarked, “there’s a problem.”

But my flippancy was strained and felt curiously inappropriate. Renthrette just stared off toward the white towers as if lost in a dream, or perhaps in a memory of childhood, when such places seemed plausible.

“It’s breathtaking,” she whispered. “Perfect.”

And, as my cynicism failed to kick in, I nodded.

We were there before sundown and the light had yellowed, turning the city to gold, which warmed and deepened as we reached a long, ornamented bridge. This spanned a wide moat filled by the Snowborne and it was broad and fair, supported on smooth arches with carved capitals and lined with marble balustrades. At its head was a gatehouse, with a pair of turrets filled with tall warriors with long, pale hair that rippled with their cloaks in the breeze.

“Who comes from Eventor?” called one of them.

“Renthrette and William from Stavis,” called my companion, who always rose to occasions like this, “friends to the fair folk and to Sorrail. We seek aid and bring news from the mountains.”

A door opened and three or four of them emerged.

“You have been looked for,” said one. “Sorrail has been here many days and is expecting you. Welcome to Phasdreille, the White City. Enter, before it grows dark, and seek him out in the house of the king. We will send word.”

The gates were framed with iron, burnished to a high shine, and paneled with a pale wood inlaid with brass, though whether this was decorative or defensive, I could not say. They opened easily, despite their great weight, and we walked our horses into the barbican and onto the twilit bridge without another word. Ahead of us, a rider cantered off across the bridge toward the gatehouse of the city, and we followed, gazing down to the river and up to the great, pale walls in an awed silence. At the far side we passed through another pair of imposing doors and entered the town.

Even with the onset of evening, the streets seemed bright and mythically fair, the city holding an air of serenity, as unlike the squalid bustle I had been used to in Cresdon as could be imagined. There was no one else about, but the city felt cleansed rather than deserted. All was quiet and peaceful, as if the very walls were watching paternally over residents who were sleeping or gathered around their hearths with their families, watching as they had for centuries.

Sorrail met us at the entrance to the king’s palace. He was handsome and smiling, pleased to see us, but he stood atop the little flight of marble steps with formal reserve. With him was an entourage of some sort, men and women dressed in vivid silks and adorned with bracelets and necklaces in which shone precious stones. They hovered at his back, their eyes upon us.

“You are most welcome to Phasdreille, home of the fair folk,” said Sorrail in a rolling, modulated voice that was addressed to those at his back as well as to those in front of him. “And to the court of King Halmir, son of Velmir, you are welcome, too. Enter and feast with us. Let us find you new raiment fitting to this place, and then you can tell us your news. For as the diamond should be cut, polished, and set in gold to show off its quality, so should the doers of virtue be clad in wealth and beauty so that their worth shines forth.”

At this slightly odd remark, there was a smattering of applause from those clustered around him. Their smiles flexed and deepened.

“Er. . thanks,” I said. “I could use a change and a bite to eat.”

There was a momentary pause, a series of fractional glances between them, and then more simpering smiles. If I didn’t know they were glad to see us, I’d say we were being condescended to. Sorrail bowed carefully at the waist, nonchalantly adding a little flourish of the hand that invited us in: very polished. He was barely recognizable as the ranger who had met us on the road.