Way of the Sword

PART I

THE QUEST

PROLOGUE

A PAST FALL

R edfield sounds like a very nice place to be from, Trevor mused.

He leaned against the wheel of the blacksmith’s war wagon, reaching through the spokes to finger tools that lay in an open chest. Maybe I’ll be from there myself, someday.

You can’t be from somewhere later, Ian Cole grumbled. The burly smithy sat on a tree stump, scraping an irregular wedge of whetstone along the curved sword in his hand. His words barely escaped the thick, black beard that hung from his face. You either are or you’re not.

Well, I don’t claim anywhere as home as yet, Trevor said, but I believe it helps a soldier to find passion and a foundation of heart in war if he has something to fight for. Adventure and good brew were my only compass points, before all this mess. Now what choice do we have, eh? Fight or be conquered. We either give our homeland over to the Dread Duke and his fiends or we muster any able-bodied man—or woman for that matter, and I’ve met some that could wrestle you into their beds, my gigantic friend... Trevor winked.

I have a wife, Ian growled, slapping the stone to the hilt again and drawing it down the length of the sword. And a son.

Trevor’s eyes lit like candles. Ah-ha. Just what I’m talking about, my wholesome friend. You have a foundation, a hearth, and loving home worth fighting for. You have something to give you passion and drive you in battle. To... well, frankly, sir, he said, a bit lower, to give you courage when your knees falter. I don’t have that and my knees, therefore, are prone to fits of nervous near-buckling. I’m a wanderer, sir. A lover, sure, but only from the britches, not from the breast. He tapped his narrow chest.

A gust of wind blew Trevor’s wavy red locks into his face, forcing him to smooth them back with both hands to wrap with a small leather tie. Ian recognized the strip of hide as one of his own, obviously just pilfered from his tool box. What are their names, Trevor said, if I may ask?

Ian hesitated. He was not in the habit of sharing anything personal about his life with these men. He was quiet by nature, but also by choice. There was something about the storyteller though—his honesty, and his desperation—that made him answer. Sasha is my wife. My son we call Billy.

Billy! William is his name then? William Cole. A burning spark from his father’s flint, no doubt. How old is the boy? Is he near as big as his father?

Despite his usual reluctance, Ian found himself suddenly happy to talk about his family. They were, in fact, the very reason he was able to continue fighting in this damned war.

He’s only six, he admitted, "but stands as tall as an eight-springs-old. Been a full grown grasshopper since the day his mother made him. Climbs and jumps off everything taller than himself. The boy’s not... reserved like his father."

Was that a faint grin almost breaking across the proud father’s lips? Ian felt the twitch of it in his cheeks and fought it down.

Trevor wagged a finger at him. ‘Reserved.’ I like that. You’re a more cunning wordsmith than you let on, Master Cole. You should talk more often.

And you talk to too much! yelled a passerby. Three soldiers moving past the smithy’s wagon howled with laughter. Trevor the Mouth, one of them barked.

"And no one was talking to you three gentlemen!" Trevor called after them. His tone was diplomatic; he obviously wanted to be angry but didn’t want to damage any potential friendships.

Not that there’d be any. The other Oxhides called him Trevor the Mouth or Trevor the Lip, depending on who was saying it and how drunk they were. The two names were interchangeable. No one knew Trevor’s true surname; he invented a new one with each exaggerated story he told. His deep-cutting wit was another reason for his unpopularity; sometimes Trevor’s jokes were so honest and scathing that they left his victims with deep wounds.

He therefore most often attached himself to Ian’s side. It seemed only natural: Trevor never stopped talking and Ian hardly started. The quiet blacksmith left a void in the air and Trevor figured that was an invitation to fill it. Ian was also about the only man in the company who didn’t ridicule the storyteller. Not because he cared much for him, but because he didn’t care much for anyone in particular. The giant, brooding blacksmith was revered and respected for his skills and strength, so much so that the other pikemen of his squad all jostled in formation to stand next to him for protection in battle.

But despite his minor celebrity among the Oxhides, Ian kept mostly to himself. Unofficially, he supposed, he and Trevor were the closest thing to friends each other had in this entire war.

He tossed the whetstone into the open chest, where it clattered against other tools, then rose to his feet with sword in hand. An instinctual nervousness flashed in Trevor’s eyes and he backed up a step. The dark giant radiated fear, whether he intended to or not.

Ian turned the pommel toward Trevor. This I made for you, he said.

Trevor pursed his lips, about to speak but speechless.

It’s lighter weight than most, and the curve of the blade makes it better for slashing. Especially useful on horseback.

Trevor was one of the Oxhides’ mounted scouts.

You truly made this for me?

Someone in camp whooped loudly, a subtle call for attention. A few shrill whistles went out. The men were passing a warning among their brother soldiers from one end of the camp to the other.

Ian and Trevor’s ears perked up too, and they looked about for the source of the excitement.

Not far away was the command tent and standing outside of it was Alfred of Cattlehorn, the Oxhides’ captain and namesake. He was older, thinner, and more crooked of posture than one might expect to see on a field of battle, but the men liked to say that it was their leader’s fox-craft and orneriness that shaped him so. He was wearing the dull officer’s mail that Ian had repaired just the day before. Alfred wore the armor more often for political reasons than for combat; he was uncomfortable being better protected than those that served beside him, and there wasn’t enough expensive armor for the common soldiers to enjoy. But when the captain was reporting to a general, or when he was expecting visitors of some import...

There, Ian thought, spying the reason. He audibly sighed.

I agree, Trevor said. That mule’s ass is the reason Uncle Alfred is wearing his Saintsday best today?

A rider on horseback entered the camp. He also wore armor, an unkempt patchwork of leather and plates that he’d scavenged from a dead soldier of the Duke’s Rogue Army. A crescent-shaped shield hung at his side, painted with the face of an angry moon. His head was as smooth and pale as a stone.

What do you call him in your dirty little tales? Ian asked.

Trevor gave a sly grin. Bald-Headed Bert. The fork-tongued ambassador of the Crescent Moons. Many’s the brothel cleaning hag who’s met that snake’s charm. He twitched two fingers in front of his lips. A low chuckle rumbled beneath Ian’s beard.

The Moons were a brother company of soldiers, all defenders of the Free Fertile Lands from the invading, immortal Duke, but they had a bad reputation. Each company of the Free Peoples Army was essentially an independent unit of brave volunteers loosely serving under the command of higher officers, who coordinated the Free Peoples’ resistance on their behalf. The last time the Oxhides had seen Bert and his four-hundred or so companions, the man had had a large, suspicious sore on his mouth. Trevor’s talespinning for the next week involved the various ways he might have earned it. Whether they generally found him annoying or not, all the Oxhides had enjoyed Trevor’s fireside stories on those evenings.

Bald-Headed Bert dismounted from his grey mare and shook hands with the Oxhides’ captain. A third man appeared from the officers’ tent and shook hands with Bert as well. He was tall and broad-shouldered with a corn silk beard and braids, his body girded in a polished breastplate.

And he’s not much better, Ian muttered.

The Oxhides had picked up Lieutenant Gregor somewhere along the way. He was a professional, a soldier of fortune who had made his living swinging a rather large mace around even before the war. He was very good at his chosen profession, and made sure everyone knew it. Lieutenant Peacock, Trevor called him, though rarely within earshot and only behind the protective snickering of fellow soldiers. Gregor usually wore a helmet decorated with a bristling purple crest right down the middle of it. He would stand out in any army, and he certainly did among the farmers and tradesmen of the Oxhides.

The three officers—Alfred, Gregor, and Bert—conversed only briefly before the peacock turned, searched the crowd of on-looking soldiers, and picked out Trevor with his hawk-like blue eyes.

Uh-oh, Trevor said. Here comes fancy britches.

Can’t say I like that lieutenant much, Ian said. I like him even less than I do you. And I like that Crescent Moon Bert least of all.

He pressed the newly made sword into Trevor’s hand, who limply took the weapon and stood suddenly dumbfounded and broken hearted.

So I guess that at least makes you third from the bottom. Ian’s lips curled into a barely visible half-smile. It was as much mirth as anyone had seen from him since the war began.

Trevor’s expression cracked in relief and he slapped the blacksmith’s shoulder. Then he felt the weight of his new weapon and took a couple practice swings. Lighter than I’m used to. I like it. Good for fighting from horseback, you say?

What’s that twig you’re swinging about? Gregor spat. What is that, Master Cole, a bit of scrap you had left over?

What news? Ian said, peering down on the mercenary officer. Gregor stared up from beneath the rim of his crested helmet, meeting the challenge in Ian’s tone. There were few men in the company who could bear the lieutenant’s stony glare. But there were none who could bear Ian Cole’s.

Gregor blinked. "The Moons have come across some blue-skins. Lots of them. We’re going to come around while they hold their ground and keep the zogs’ attention.

Muster some scouts, Lip, he told Trevor, and see what you can see. Pack up your tools, Master Cole. Our little holiday is over.

Gregor turned and walked back toward the tent where Alfred and the Crescent Moon’s envoy were still talking. Other soldiers nearby had overheard Gregor and were already passing the word to strike camp.

The blacksmith and scout shared a look. Trevor shrugged, thanked him again for the sword, and went off to find his horse.

By mid-afternoon the next day, all but three Oxhides would be dead.

1

DOGS OF NIGHT

Silver, they call it, the light of the full moon: celestial magic that changes men into beasts and calls the dead from their graves... and young men to their destiny.

Billy lay on his back trying to fall asleep but his eyes wouldn’t close. The grass was tall and damp, shielding him from the night breeze and the eyes of the world. All around him were the sounds of the night: gurgling water, cricket songs, owl calls. The sky was black and clear and he could feel the chill air on his face, the rest of him protected by a coat and two woolen blankets. The waning moon glowed above, now five days past full.

How things can change in five days, he thought. This morning he had been Billy Cole, small town workhorse and son of an aging blacksmith. Now he was out on his own, miles beyond the imaginary boundaries that he’d never been allowed to cross, on a quest to save everything he knew and loved. All alone.

Happy New Spring, he told himself aloud. This was his sixteenth; he felt at least twenty.

It was just after the New Spring, first day of the year, that evil befell the small town of Redfield. Wicked magic that had slumbered in the Blood Marsh for centuries awoke now to bring nightmares to the living.

That one was pretty good.

Trevor said that beginnings were very important and made the difference between drawing a crowd and talking to yourself. You had to bait your audience without shoving it down their throats, he said. A good story could nourish like a venison roast, but only if they swallowed it.

How, then, would the epic of William Thunderstrike begin?

Armed with weapons of renown and the blood of legend in his veins, William Thunderstrike left the village of Redfield on an errand of mercy.

He smiled at that one.

A chill crawled down his back. He tugged his wrappings against his own weight, then sat up to do a better job. The wool would itch against his bare chin but it was better than freezing.

The night breeze mussed his hair with invisible fingers. One of Trevor’s stories came to mind, the one about a seductive tree sprite who had nearly lured the Colors Three to their doom. Billy imagined a beautiful green girl stepping out of the shadowy tree line and coming over to keep him warm. He’d rather she not be intent on killing him, of course, but who knew what wonders he might find on this adventure? An other-worldly romance was not out of the question now that he was free from home. Fate knew there were no girls his age in Redfield.

His eyes scanned the trees, just in case. The moonlight shimmered on leaves and high grass, contrasted by deep shadows. The entire scene seemed painted in varying shades of blue and black, save Meadow Guard’s stark white rump. (His ride’s name was actually Meadow Mane, but William Thunderstrike would need a stronger-sounding mount than that.) Apparently the horse couldn’t sleep either. He was tied to the sparse line of elms along the stream bank. Billy had set camp twenty yards off the road, far enough to hide from passersby among the brush. Then again, who would be traveling so late? The rest of the world was safe and warm in their beds.

Or were they? The Pirate’s Trail ran somewhere through here, too. Bradley and Sprat had talked about the traffic of smugglers and bandits running some hidden path that crossed the northern road to ports on the eastern coast. Dropped all kinds of treasure along the way, they said, hauling it like drunken slobs, their chests of gold and jewels brimming over, leaving a shimmering trail behind them. But you dare not pick up any treasures you might find... He remembered the big grin, ear to ear, on Sprat’s round little face as he drew a finger across his throat.

Bah. That’s some royal scruff, Billy thought. Sprat was eight springs old, what did he know?

Billy adjusted the leather pack he was using as a pillow, drew his arm back inside the wool cocoon, and lay back down. He closed his eyes.

And opened them again.

The stars were plentiful tonight.

Ever since he was a boy—or at least as long as he’d known Trevor—he’d watched the constellations. They drifted some with the seasons but he could always find them, and these particular stars glowed with the power of legends. Directly above him was Gregor the Golden, three points of light making up the curve of his crested helmet, four more his shining breastplate. To the east was Trevor the Red, the corners of his flowing cape visible as well as the blade of his deadly sword, a weapon as quick as the hero’s wit. (Billy’s hand reflexively touched the scabbard next to him, assuring him that it was still there.) And in the northern sky, Ian the Black. It took several stars to span his broad shoulders and the huge bear hide that draped across them, plus two more for the head of his smithy hammer.

He felt another chill, though this one was guilt.

Duke’s beard, he muttered, cursing himself, I shouldn’t feel bad about it. The stubborn old bear would never have let me go. That’s why Billy had tried to get out of Redfield before his father woke up from his beer-deepened slumber, a condition Billy himself had encouraged the night before by keeping his father’s mug full. But his plan hadn’t been perfect. Ian Cole had woken just before Billy could escape the clamoring townsfolk, who were still stocking his saddlebags and wishing him well. He’d seen the confusion, then rage on his father’s face, followed by... melting.

Ian Cole, the great bear of Redfield, had simply melted on the spot; there was no other word for it. Thankfully no one else had seen it—the entire crowd was watching their young savior about to depart—but from the vantage of horseback, Billy could see everything.

He wiped some water from his eye, hoped it was rain.

No tears, he told himself. No heroic damn epic begins with the hero crying himself to sleep. I’ve got too much brass for—

Billy bolted upright.

His ears sharpened, tuning past the cricket chirps, and his eyes probed the absolutes of moonlight and darkness. Had he heard a mumbling voice on the breeze?

Blue-black shapes shimmered all around, the tree leaves bristling as the hair did on his neck. His white horse glowed under the moon, shuffling nervously, pulling at his reins and bending the small tree he was tied to.

Billy struggled to free himself from his wool cocoon.

A thump between him and the road. Someone cursed. Billy remembered the fallen branch he’d almost tripped over.

Meadow Guard snorted.

Finally, Billy burst from his blankets, snatched the scabbard from the ground next to him, and jumped to his feet.

And then froze.

Just a few yards away stood a bestial figure half-crouched and ready to spring. Triangular ears perked at the top of its head and its long muzzle snarled at him. A dagger in its hand reflected the moonlight. Billy’s mouth made circles like a dry fish struggling for water: W-W-Werewolf?

Meadow Guard made a feeble buck in his peripheral vision. The motion broke Billy’s paralysis and his hand slapped onto the hilt of his sword.

Wait! the werewolf barked. Think about this, mate.

It talked?

Billy’s vision sharpened as he stared. He saw now the gnarled condition of the beast’s ears; the mangy, patchy fur; the dry, squinty eyes. Were there even eyes there or just shriveled sockets? The white points of upper teeth were raggedly gapped, it had no bottom jaw at all, and the fur of its neck rose and fell with the breeze. This was just a man wearing a skinned dog on his head!

Billy clenched his teeth and stepped forward. He drew the first several inches of Sliver’s blade from its sheath.

Wait! The dog-man held up one hand and took a step back. The dagger in his other hand danced around. Don’t be stupid, mate. You don’t have to die here.

Billy licked his lips. Just an ordinary man, a brigand off the road, maybe even Sprat’s Pirate Trail. And only a coward would kill a dog to wear as fashion. Billy was braver than this scum; born of solid brass, Trevor always said.

He took a step forward, tilting Sliver’s exposed blade to flash moonlight.

You’re smarter than this, the dog-man said. Just put the sword down and walk away. This is your last chance.

"This is your last chance," Billy cried, fully drawing his weapon. Sliver was forged by his father specifically for Trevor, a curved blade designed for grace rather than power. Years later Trevor would trick Ian Cole into making a duplicate sword, which he would then use to train the blacksmith’s own son.

Billy leveled the sword tip at the dog’s eyeless sockets. His left hand tightened on the scabbard; he knew it could be used as a desperate shield or even a weapon in combat.

The dog-man danced backward. His dagger whirled around a few times. Wiley? he said.

Billy didn’t understand until a nasally voice answered from Meadow Guard’s position: Got it, boss.

Now Billy danced back, widening his stance to include this second, yet-to-be-seen opponent.

The dog-man lashed forward. Sliver responded in an exaggerated arc and Billy’s attention narrowed instantly back on him. He knew it was fear making him sloppy, swinging wide and wild. This was his first real fight, after all.

Give up, mate, there was a smile in the dog-man’s voice, and I promise you’ll walk away.

You give up, Billy spat. "Run, before I skin you for a hat."

The dog head tilted sideways, as if considering something. Moonlight found a nose and bristly chin beneath the snaggle-toothed jaw. How old are you? he asked, the question drawled out.

Billy hesitated. Older than you.

I don’t think so.

Old enough to run you through. Billy winced at the rhyme as soon as it passed his lips.

I don’t think so.

Something crashed into him from behind. Arms flailed around his body, hands fumbling at his wrists. He bucked and nearly threw the smaller man away, but the brigand held tight and plowed forward again. Billy stumbled, something seized his sword arm, and suddenly the eyeless dog was right there, its jawless maw close enough to see the bandit smirking underneath. The dog-man bellowed a foul-smelling battle cry and the three of them wrestled into the brush. Billy staggered but didn’t fall. Confidence swelled in his chest and lent power to his limbs; he’d always been big but holding off two grown men... He grinned despite the struggle.

I’m the son of Ian the Black, he cried, and I’m stronger than both of you!

Sliver made a few short, desperate swings from the wrist, then fell away. An elbow crashed against Billy’s face and a burst of white flashed across his vision. Six legs tripped through the undergrowth and the bundle of wrestlers nearly fell. The scoundrel behind Billy bit his shoulder, but his cry of pain was cut short by a fist under his ribcage, knocking the wind from him. Gasping for air, the young man crumpled to the ground where he was kicked twice more.

Two dark figures stood over him.

Next time... the bestial shape said, panting for breath, that Mad Dog McCray wants your horse, boy... You just give it up, hear?

The other shadow, the one called Wiley, stepped away and returned with a thick tree limb held high. Nighty-night, kid, the nasally voice sang.

A sharp blow across the forehead plunged Billy into darkness.

2

THE ROAD OF DREAMS

The fireplace and chandelier candles all burned an eerie red. The Crimson Cloak Tavern was crazy with people. Every bench seat was taken and many more patrons either sat on tabletops or stood between them. Every citizen of Redfield was in dutiful attendance, the adults more concerned with their beers than their children and the kids chasing one another through the tunnels of people in a game of Swamp Man Stalks You. The air was as thick with laughter as it was fireplace smoke. Billy found himself leaning against a wall with his arms folded against his chest.

Hear-hear! someone shouted. It was Master Steward, standing on his bench with his mug held high. Most other patrons were indiscernible from the darkness, just silhouettes against the red light, though Billy could make out the preacher Brother Fabien and the lovely Jenna Knox at one table. Jenna was playing her viol but Wil couldn’t hear the music. In the corner behind them lurked two more shadowy figures. It looked like a man and his dog. Master Barbareau and his lanky hound? Wil wondered, though that didn’t seem right; Barbareau was one of the Three Stoolies and always sat at the bar.

Master Steward cheered again and rounded his drink in the air. Finally the crowd quieted and settled into their seats. Man and beast in the corner faded back into the darkness, only visible by the dog’s burning red eyes. All attention was on the tavern keeper now.

Trevor stood behind the bar mindlessly wiping it down with his favorite rag. All the stools along the front were strangely empty, save the last one. The shape of Billy’s father slouched on his usual seat, a massive, ragged shape of shoulders and hair curled over a scar-lipped tin mug. On the wall above the bar was the mount for Trevor’s legendary sword, Sliver. The engraved plaque was polished to a high shine but the pair of hooks that usually held the sword aloft were empty—the sword was gone!

Billy stood alert, eyes probing the hellish red light and sinister darkness for whatever thief dared steal such an icon. No one else in the bar seemed to notice, though. The crowd was busy nagging Trevor for a story.

No, no, the tavern master said, I haven’t got any tales for tonight. I’m fresh out.

The choir of shadowy patrons complained.

The dog in the back corner stood up, not on four legs but on two: it stood up. That was not Master Barbareau and Dog hiding behind the crowd. The beast’s eyes glowed with malign fire and its toothy maw widened into a smile. The man beside it giggled, encouraging it to take whatever evil pleasure it had in mind.

The beast stepped forward and drew a crooked dagger. Jenna Knox sat ignorant in front of it, resting her viol on the table and listening to Trevor feign disinterest.

Billy shouted but no one heard him.

He pointed and yelled again, but no one saw him either; they were all watching Trevor, who was finally giving into their demands for entertainment.

Something else was creeping in from the periphery of the room now, crawling out of the shadowy corners, slipping from under tables: small monstrous shapes with curved talons, huge pointed ears, and rows of tiny teeth glistening in their wicked smiles. And all their eyes glowed with the same hellish light. The children who had been playing Swamp Man Stalks You had been transformed into creatures of the Swamp Man’s will! A green-skinned, devilish version of Sprat appeared from between someone’s legs, hissed in Billy’s direction, then ducked back into the crowd again.

Billy felt powerless. Surely there was something he could do?

He looked down and realized that Sliver had been on his hip all along. White light shined from the blade as he pulled it free from the scabbard. Billy held the sword high and charged on top of the nearest table.

But the crowd only cheered, thinking it a show, and the monsters cheered with them. In the back corner, the dog-man’s jagged teeth grinned from under his bestial cowl, Wiley giggling beside him. Mad Dog licked his dagger’s blade, raised it high above Jenna Knox and savagely plunged it downward—

Billy opened his eyes to tall grass and darkness and sucked in a desperate breath. Was he alive? Had he been dead?

His heart answered, thrumming a painful beat through a lump above his left eye.

A second pulse throbbed in his forehead. It was a dream. He wasn’t in the Crimson Cloak. He was lying curled up on the ground and shivering violently with no coat or blankets to keep him warm.

I’m not at the Cloak, not at home, he told himself. He was out on the northern road, on a quest. And a dog-man and his lackey had just beaten the hell out of him.

Blood throbbed into the goose egg as he sat up. His fingers told him just how big it was, like a huge, third eye sprouting from his forehead. That would not look very heroic. Everyone would know he’d been thumped.

A spectrum of orange and yellow glowed in the eastern sky. Scattered bird songs announced the dawn.

Next to Billy were two hunks of tree limb, the broken weapon that had forced him savagely into sleep. Good thing it was dry rotted, he thought, or my head might have split instead.

He saw no sign of his attackers. They were gone. Other than the waking birds, Billy was the only creature left—

Meadow Guard!

He leapt to his feet, stumbling through dizziness and undergrowth back into the empty clearing. The Stewards’ horse was gone. With him went the saddle, which was probably worth more than he could work off in a year, and the saddle bag, which had all of his food and water in it, and... The spear? It had been thonged to the rear of the saddle.

He rushed toward the creek bank where Meadow Guard had been tied. Not the spear, he pleaded, not Thunderstrike. As he got closer, he noticed an unnaturally straight line standing at an angle from the ground, separate from the trees and grass. He seized it with both hands and released the breath he’d been holding. The spear’s long shaft was new but the armor-piercing, master-forged head had served Ian the Black during the war. It was a relic of the Colors Three and a family heirloom. Thank the Powers that the dog-man didn’t care to take it with him. Too cumbersome for a rogue’s weapon, Billy figured.

But what about Sliver? That a thief might find useful.

He tried to retrace the steps of the battle but in the predawn light it was impossible to tell one patch of grass and weeds from another. And he saw no signs of his camp or that he’d ever even been here. All of his belongings were gone: his pack, along with the meager coin pouch and basic survival gear, his blankets, even his tattered canvas coat—those Duke lovers had even stripped that from his unconscious body. Nothing, he thought. I have nothing.

He wanted to scream at the sky, to sound all his frustrations at the heavens, but he didn’t. The stars were still visible, night fading but not yet gone. The constellations were still there, looking down on him, perhaps ashamed of him.

Deep breath, slowly exhaled.

Focus, he told himself. Stay calm. Do what a warrior would do, not what a panicky kid would do.

He scanned around, not sure what he was looking for until he saw it: an area of crushed grass, long and narrow and about his size. This is where I started, he said aloud. A few paces away he found the scabbard that had housed Sliver. There was no mistaking its smoothed cherry wood, lacquered red and polished to a shine. For a second he felt guilty for thinking he’d use it in the fight with Mad Dog McCray. Trevor had put more love into that scabbard than the whole of the Crimson Cloak Tavern. But even it was nothing compared to the sword itself.

Billy searched for signs of the fight. Some crooked nettle stalks, a busted milkweed pod, the thick tangle of ivy crawling across the ground. He remembered the three of them smashing through there. I’m the son of Ian the Black, he repeated, "and I’m stronger than both of you. Bah. What a bunch of scruff." Though he nearly had been. In a fair fight he’d have taken them. Ian the Black was renown as a giant among men and Billy, at only sixteen springs, was bigger than most adults he knew.

But not big enough, he thought, wading into the undergrowth and watching for the shimmer of steel. Two wandering thieves beat me and took everything I own, and not half a day from home. Some way to start a heroic saga. He kicked at some weeds.

And on top of that, I lost Trevor’s sword.

No, I better not have lost that sword. He wasn’t sure he could even bring himself to go home without it.

Going home. That prospect sounded good, and he felt some relief at the thought. Knots in his shoulders that he hadn’t known were there hinted that they might gladly relax if only he’d head south toward Redfield. On foot he’d be there by suppertime, and probably be treated to a big hot meal at the Crimson Cloak or the Stewards’ Inn. Then again, why would he be rewarded for losing their sword and horse? Of course it wasn’t really his fault, he’d been ganged up on by a pair of professional cut-throats, and he had the lumps to prove it. Billy imagined throwing open the doors of the Cloak and stumbling inside. The townsfolk would gasp at the sight of him, all beaten and filthy and sweaty from the long walk home. They’d hang on his every word as he recounted the midnight mayhem, how he’d barely escaped with his life. No one would blame him for coming home after getting robbed and thrashed, for going for help and finding only cruelty in the world at large. They’d be glad he was home. Probably worried sick about him now. Duke’s beard, why did they send him on this quest anyway?

They didn’t, he told himself aloud. I volunteered. Hell, the whole thing was my idea.

Who else could have done it? The rest were simple farmers, humble villagers.

And let’s face it, the legendary heroes aren’t so legendary anymore. They’d said so themselves, in so many words. Their time had passed.

I’m just coming into my time, he told himself. I’m a man now and the son of a hero.

You are your father’s son, Trevor had told him, the bear’s cub with iron in your arms and brass where it counts. Though, I’m happy to say, you do have quite a bit more personality than your Pa.

His foot struck something heavy. Billy knelt down and found the mythic sword of Trevor the Red with a shadowy reflection of his own face sliding along the blade.

Thank the Powers.

He lifted it from the grass, wiped the dew on his britches, and raised the sword high enough to touch the dawn colors. The experience of its true owner radiated like warmth from the relic, charging Billy with its power. Then with one quick, practiced motion, the sword flipped down and kissed the scabbard’s lip, the blade slid smartly inside, and the hand guard clapped against the rim. He imagined the sound made even the birds snap to attention.

I can’t go home, he told himself. Not till I find the help we need.

Before leaving his failed camp, Billy washed his face in the stream and found some wild blackberries for breakfast. The sparrows had eaten much of the exposed fruit but reaching through thorns and suffering a few scrapes yielded plump, juicy rewards. Besides, the long scratches down his forearm made him look even more abused. He was a rough and tumble warrior and anyone who saw him would know he’d suffered hardships, yet here he was, sword on his hip and spear on his back, trudging ever forward.

Marching down the road, he imagined stalking into the town of Hobb’s Turn. Everyone would stop and stare at the war-torn stranger. The men would fear and respect him, the women would wonder what kind of passion burned in his hero’s breast. He’d strut into the biggest, roughest tavern in the city and all eyes would fall on him. Conversations would stop. They’d see the swift blade Sliver on his hip and the mighty Thunderstrike in his fist and know he was descended from greatness. The toughest man in the place would give up his regular seat at the bar. They’d serve him a giant mug of rich amber ale without him asking for it (and without asking how old he was—his father drank himself to sleep but still insisted Billy was still too young to have his own). A beautiful young barmaid would make eyes at him and ask what he’d like to eat, anything he wanted, she’d make it special. Then she’d rush off to the kitchen, pausing halfway to look back. When the barkeep asked what he was doing in town, he’d say he was looking for a scoundrel dressed in mutt by the name of Mad Dog McCray.

All heads would turn to the shadowy back corner of the place. There, trying desperately not to be noticed, would be Mad Dog and Wiley.

And they’d wet themselves at the sight of me, Billy said with a sneer.

He pounced in the middle of the road, pulled Thunderstrike off his back and cast it with another long stride at his imaginary enemies. It soared fifteen yards and bit into a thick elm. The spear stood straight for two seconds, then the back end slumped to the ground.

That spear strike would kill Wiley on the spot, nailing him to the back wall.

Billy drew Sliver from its scabbard. He held the blade out and turned his body behind it, protecting himself just as Trevor had taught him. This is fencing, he said aloud, imagining the petrified McCray cowering in the corner. Allow me to teach you a lesson. He cut the air with subtle flicks of the wrist, twirled the blade, parried invisible attacks, reposted, dodged, then lunged, striking with the blade’s tip. The whole deadly ballet was enough to kill ten phantasmal McCrays. Then he changed stances, sword high and second fist ready. ‘From grace to guts,’ he said, quoting Trevor. This, Mad Dog, is saber. He broke into a violent dash, slashing as he went, using the full length of the sword’s edge to cut down a full mob of imagined animal-skinning foes: one dressed in cow with cute little horns; one in a deer cowl with twenty-point antlers; a villain with two housecats tied at the tails and draped over his head; one wearing a dead goat, the head at his ass and ass on his head, tail flagging up like an early morning hair style; another with a triangular woodchuck pelt down his forehead, buck-toothed surprise forever expressed on the critter’s dead face. And finally, after killing a whole farm’s worth of thugs, he’d face Mad Dog himself.

Billy glared at a half-dead tree that leaned out near the road. Next time William Thunderstrike tells you to surrender, you just do it, hear? With that he spun full circle and thunked his sword into the grey trunk, separating Mad Dog’s head from his shoulders.

Yeah, he breathed. That’s how I’ll do it.

3

TALESPINNER’S COIN

What would have taken only hours by horseback took most of the day on foot. Billy’s stomach was grumbling very loudly by the time he reached Hobb’s Turn. On either side of the road where he stood now were three-foot tall posts with wreaths of greenery tacked to them, traditional signs of the New Spring. Billy looked at his red-blotched fingers and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He’d found more wild blackberries not far back and hoped now that his lips weren’t as stained as his hands. The berries had been both sweet and tart, but not very filling. A young man of his size (and heroic occupation) needed much more to sustain himself, and by now it had to be nearly supper time. The sun had left its high throne in the sky hours ago and was getting close to the western horizon.

Beyond the travel markers the road curved to the right and he broke into a jog, excited to finally be done. Beyond that