Krull Page 12

  "You've been fortunate to lead us, Colwyn, while I've been stuck back in the pack with him whose mouth is half as big as his face. Aye, he said he could cook, along with being master of half a dozen other abilities. Too many to pack into so slight a frame, if you ask me, but perhaps this claim was a little less of a lie than the rest." He turned and strolled back to confront the resting Ergo.

  "You once told me that you could cook, befriender of small children."

  "And so I can."

  "Well then, O genius of giblets, your hour has arrived. You will be given the chance to make magic with a cauldron."

  Ergo looked surprised, then downright pleased. "You're bringing me a deer. Ah, tenderloin of venison! Hank steak roasts. We will eat like kings."

  "Not likely," Torquil informed him. "More like serfs. Oatmeal and, if we're fortunate, some small game. Maybe; some vegetables if the Slayers haven't burned all the fields hereabouts."

  "Food for crows!" Ergo's initial enthusiasm dimmed quickly.

  "True . . . in the hands of an ordinary man. But you, O wizard of the spatula, surely you can make small game taste like venison? Any fool can cook a deer, but it would take a true genius to make table-gold from cellar-lead. You can perform this simple bit of magic. Or can you?"

  Ergo was aware that Torquil's gaze wasn't the only one focused on him. Kegan was watching from his position behind the bandit chief and Oswyn looked on interestedly from his resting place. Titch's eyes were wide and even Colwyn looked intrigued.

  With such an audience he could hardly turn down the challenge. He drew himself up. "If I choose, bumpkin, I can make your boot taste like venison. Fetch me wood for a fire. Good dry wood, no green branches, and plenty of loose bark, cleansed of insects. And whatever fragrant leaves you can glean from the forest floor."

  Torquil grinned, genuflected mockingly. "As you wish, Magnificence."

  Ergo talked to himself as he inspected the campsite. "Now then; fire there, beneath that small tree. I can hang the game from a stick set between those two branches and that root. Back the root with some rocks and we'll have a good place for baking potatoes. Then put the—" He broke off, staring. Titch and Rell were heading off into the woods. He chased after them.

  "Wait! Where are you going, you mismatched mongrels? I need your help."

  Titch turned and spoke firmly. "We have things of our own to attend to. Important things."

  "More important than helping me with dinner?" Titch nodded. "Well then, dinner will have to wait. I will come with you."

  "No," Rell told him. "You have a lot of work to do, preparing the fire and then our food. How can you think of leaving with so many depending on your work?"

  "My work can wait and so can the meal." He frowned at them. "What are you two up to?"

  "Our own business," Rell replied with maddening indifference. "Nothing that need concern you."

  "Is that the way to treat a companion? I thought we were friends, Rell."

  "We are. But you can't come." He looked down, put a hand on Titch's head and tousled the boy's hair. "Come, little one, we have important work to do."

  They strolled off together, Rell bending low so Titch could whisper in his ear. Try as he might, Ergo couldn't escape the feeling that they were talking about him.

  All right, let them gossip. He angrily turned back toward camp. Friends who whisper about a man behind his back are no friends at all. He kicked at the ground.

  "Some friends. Never trust a boy whose main desire in life is to care for some dirty mutt, nor a man who looks at life through a keyhole."

  Maybe they'd be late for the meal. In that case they'd miss the unique feast he would prepare. That would show 'em. He began clearing the site for the fire, planning in his mind a meal fit for the palate of the most discerning gourmet. It did not trouble him that he was likely to be half a hundred ingredients shy of the means to concoct such a supper, and it served to keep his mind from the mystery his erstwhile friends had embarked upon.

  "I know they were back here somewhere," Titch was muttering as he led the cyclops deeper into the forest. The moon was rising and it barely shed enough light to show the way through the massive trees. But Titch wasn't relying on mere light to guide him. Living all his life with the seer had taught him to use all his senses. Now his nose began to twitch as they penetrated still darker woods.

  "I hope you're right about this, boy." Rell brushed a thorny branch aside. "Otherwise we're going to look like a grand pair of fools when we return."

  "I was sure of it, Rell. I couldn't mistake—" He stopped and pointed. "There, you see!"

  Rell moved forward, took a moment to gaze in awe at the sight before them before reaching back to pat the boy on the head. "I ask forgiveness for doubting you, Titch. You may be small in stature but you've the senses of a wolf."

  "The seer used to say I was a little like a wolf cub." Thoughts of the seer made him sad, and he hurried to turn his mind to more pleasant thoughts. Never linger over past misfortunes, the old man had always told him. The past is dead. Only the future lives on.

  "Boost me up," he ordered Rell. The cyclops knelt and picked him up in one hand, held him high.

  "How do such wondrous fruits come to grow here?" Rell murmured.

  "The trees around us are giants. So are the bushes," observed Titch as he considered where to begin. "Why not these as well?" He reached out and plucked a single gooseberry from a near branch. It was only slightly smaller than his head.

  "Ergo the Magnificent has a large mouth, but he won't know what to say about this. He'll have a hard time stuffing these in his pocket."

  Rell took down the first berry, set it gently on the ground so as not to bruise the delicate skin. "But not so hard stuffing them in his stomach."

  "We'll need some other things, too. I guess we'll have to go into that village."

  "Yes," Rell agreed, "and we'll have to be quiet about it. I don't think my presence would be reassuring to the townsfolk."

  IX

  The mountain seemed familiar to Ynyr but he didn't dwell on old memories as he skirted the dark boulders and basalt columns. The climb was the least of his concerns. So much hinged on the success of his application, yet he had no way of predicting how he would be received. This was a visit he would have preferred to have avoided, but with the death of the seer and the loss of the temple, no other course lay open to him and his companions.

  Perhaps, given time, he might have seen another way, but time was growing short for Colwyn and Lyssa, and for Krull. If this opportunity was lost another might not arise for generations. He'd seen too much of what the Slayers were capable of. It was not right that humans should cower before a tyrant as capricious as the Beast. The work of generations was nearing fruition. What mattered his life compared to the lives of all the wise men and women who had striven before him to raise the possibility that hung just beyond their grasp?

  So he was calm enough as he ascended the mountain, but he was glad Colwyn and the others were not along to see his fear . . .

  The stewpot was no enchanted caldron and the large wooden spoon wielded by a glum Ergo no magic wand, but to the hungry men settled beneath the towering trees the stew bordered on the miraculous. It was edible, and they would settle for that.

  So many ingredients missing, Ergo thought sadly as he gazed into the bubbling pot! How do they expect me to produce a decent meal with stringy meat and old vegetables, and next to nothing in the way of spices? He hoped they appreciated his efforts. He did not consider the preparation of food beneath his wizardly station. Concocting a good meal often involved the use of the arcane arts, and this stew was no exception. Without his special abilities he doubted it would have turned out fit for human consumption.

  The first spoonful, however, had been greeted by something less than universal applause. On the other hand, no one had yet thrown up. He expected nothing else. Country bumpkins have no appreciation for real cooking, he knew. Ah well, there would come another day when they'd have
even less to eat. Then they'd remember his cuisine with fondness.

  The peasant girl who served the stew to the travelers called herself Vella. Her clothes had seen better days, from her worn shoes to the battered kerchief that bound up her hair and the cloak that covered her slim form. Kitchen soot smudged her face, hiding the fact that she was considerably more attractive than a casual first glance would indicate.

  No such ambivalence marred Merith's appearance. Her plain attire could not conceal her beauty. The men observed her admiringly as she made her way around the campsite, introducing herself to each man before finally taking a bowl of steaming stew to Kegan and sitting down beside him.

  "You don't write as often as you should," she said accusingly.

  "Often enough." He shoveled in the stew—if you downed it quickly it didn't taste so bad. "Consider how poorly I write and how slowly you read." He smiled, ran a teasing hand along her thigh. "I could have myself a fine time between the time you started reading a letter and finally finished it."

  "Which I could not do at all if so distracted by you," she murmured softly. "Still, I wish that I could see more of you. Then I wouldn't need to complain about nonexistent letters."

  "I wish the same, m'love, but business requires that I move about frequently. Birds and money both migrate with the seasons."

  "It seems that your travels bring you this way less and less, Kegan."

  "I have no control over my movements. Thanks to sheriffs and bounty hunters. Nor do I work alone." He waved the spoon in the general direction of his companions. "Torquil is leader of this band and 'tis he who decides which land we harvest next. I follow his orders." He smiled apologetically. "So you see, it's out of my hands."

  "It need not be, if you'd stay closer."

  "Never tease a man when he's eating, love. It's bad for the digestion. And don't pout. You're no little girl and I'm certainly no wide-eyed little boy."

  Merith let out a disappointed sigh. "You have an answer for everything, Kegan."

  "A necessary talent in my profession." He nodded across the clearing at where Vella was serving a grateful Oswyn. "Who's the girl? I don't recall seeing her around the village the last time I was here."

  "A sad tale brought her to us," Merith explained. "Poor little thing. She staggered into the square one day, wearing less than you see on her now. Her village was burned by the Slayers. She said she wandered aimlessly about the countryside a long time before finding us. She had no place to go, no relatives left alive, no friends. So I took her in."

  "You have a big heart, Merith."

  She slapped playfully at his hand. "Which cannot be measured by one's fingers. And you look at her like that one more time and I will cast her out."

  "Merith, my sweet, she doesn't hold a candle to you. Look at her, filthy and stooped. Far too childlike for my taste. She's not even pretty."

  "Do you think I would have brought her here for you to see if she was?"

  Kegan laughed. "Dearest, you spend too many hours of the night worrying. Faithful is my middle name."

  "Yes, faithful to whoever you're lying with at the moment. And if you were with me, those long hours of the night would not seem half so long."

  He set his empty bowl aside and rested his head in her lap. "Someday I will tire of such work, m'love. But I am no farmer, no tradesman to sit every rest day in the marketplace and chatter about the crops with old men."

  "I'd travel the country with you. All you'd have to do is ask."

  "And I'd love to have you with me, and so would every other lonely wayfarer who keeps to the back trails. Too dangerous and too troublesome, Merith. I've told you that before."

  Not to mention fatal, he thought, if she were to encounter any of the "cousins" he was forced to obliquely allude to when she discovered this or that item of feminine origin attached to his person.

  "Let us not spend what time we have together regretting the time we do not have." He pulled her face down to his and she did not resist.

  Torquil made a face, spat a piece of unchewable gristle onto his spoon and heaved it into the woods. "You are true to your word, O sorceror of the saucepan," he shouted at their chef. "This stew tastes like my boot."

  "Your stomach seems to handle it better than your mouth," Ergo snapped back.

  "My stomach has no choice in the matter. My mouth does. Keeping a man alive is mere drudgery. Making him enjoy the process is called cooking."

  "You try making something tasty out of this sludge," Ergo challenged him.

  "Nay, my talents lie elsewhere, Magnificence."

  "Then, do not presume to criticize those who have the use of such talent."

  "I would not, if I could detect any evidence of such a talent in my bowl!"

  Ergo turned away from the chuckles of his companions to stare disconsolately at the remaining stew. "So much for appreciating one's efforts. Well, it seems I've already lost two friends. I suppose this meal will lose me the rest of them." He gave the side of the caldron a vicious whack with his stirring spoon. "If only I had some spices!" He'd tried cursing the concoction but that didn't seem to have pepped it up. Nor did hot fudge sauce sound like the thing to complement wild game stew.

  Colwyn leaned against the side of a normal-sized tree. It was a mere sapling in the giant forest. He chewed nervously on a much-worried thumbnail as he stared toward the crest of the dark mountain.

  Ynyr was up there someplace, alone, likely walking toward his death. He'd listened to the wise man's words and understood the wisdom of them, but he still couldn't help feeling that he'd be of more use up there on the rocks instead of down in the forest, safe and unthreatened.

  Yet Ynyr had ordered him to remain behind and remain he would . . . but he chafed anxiously at the restriction.

  A hand touched his sleeve and he started, relaxing when he saw who it was. That young girl who'd come from the village to help Kegan's woman . . . Tella—no, Vella her name was.

  She carried a bowl of hot stew and held it out to him. Her voice was soft, soothing. "You must eat something."

  "I'm not hungry."

  "Of course you are hungry." She gestured behind her. "All the others are hungry, so you must be hungry, too."

  He smiled down at her. "Your logic is as simple as your dress."

  She looked down at her attire and smiled back at him. "I would that I could look like a fancy court lady, but such is not my destiny."

  "Never mind," he told her, "you look just fine."

  "Then if my appearance pleases you, please eat something. For me?"

  "I've done more for lesser beings. All right, I am hungry. Thank you." He accepted the bowl. "Do you forgive me for lying to you about my appetite?"

  He was teasing her, but she took his words seriously. "Sometimes a man can carry such a burden that he forgets the needs of his body." She was eyeing him intently now, blue eyes burning from behind the mask of soot and dirt. "I forgive you, Colwyn."

  He smiled uncertainly at her, then sat down. Still glancing occasionally up at the mountain, he devoured the stew. She took a seat nearby and watched him. When he was almost finished, he gave her a curious look.

  "Don't you have anything else to do except sit there and watch me eat?"

  She shrugged. "I do what Merith asks of me. She asks nothing of me now. She is busy enough with matters of her own." Colwyn looked past her but could see no sign of Kegan or Merith. Their absence spoke volumes, or at least a modest number of pages.

  "You're a funny little thing."

  "That's what the people in the village tell me. I try to keep out of their way. No one bothers me. Are you a real king?"

  He grinned. "By accident of birth that is my lot, yes. It's nothing to boast of. None of us can help what we are born into. Mere chance seems an unfair way to begin existence."

  "Yes, it does," she said with more solemnity than he'd expected. "I had not thought of it that way before."

  Ergo had seen Merith and Kegan vanish into the woods. Now he watch
ed as Vella sidled close to Colwyn. He cursed his luck along with the stew. It suddenly occurred to him that he'd been so busy feeding everyone else that he'd not had time to eat himself.

  Bending over the pot, he inspected the remaining stew, selected a healthy mouthful with the stirring spoon and downed it. After a moment's reflective chewing, he grimaced, looked around to make sure no one was watching him, and slung the rest of the spoonful into a helpless bush, muttering to himself.

  "The foul filcher was right. It does taste like his boot."

  Before long only the remnants of the cooking fire illuminated the camp, mixed with what moonlight filtered down through the great trees. Bushes moved and several figures stealthily approached the sleeping camp. A tall shape moved silently among them, gently awakening Torquil, Kegan and Oswyn, motioning the startled men to silence as they awoke. They restrained their curiosity as they followed Rell back into the forest, knowing that their unvoiced questions would be answered soon.

  Several minutes later Titch appeared, stole across the grass until he stood alongside the recumbent Ergo. He tapped the exhausted cook on the shoulder.

  Ergo rolled over, blinked. "Oh, so it's you. Come back with your tail between your legs, eh? Well I'm not having any of it." He shook the boy's hand off and turned away from him. "Leave me alone. Go back to your one-eyed friend. Friends do not keep secrets from each other."

  "Sometimes it's necessary," the boy said.

  Ergo's reply was slick with sarcasm. "Did your wonderful seer tell you that?"

  "No. I figured it out for myself." He glanced backward, saw the three thieves and the cyclops emerge from the woods. Between them they carried a bloated, misshapen object of impressive but irregular dimensions. Titch nudged Ergo once again.

  "Do you know what I think, chef to the unappreciative? I think your nose is asleep."

  "Asleep?" Ergo let out a derisive snort. "This nose? This nose works day and night, ready to sniff out friends and potential enemies alike. This nose is attuned to the finest culinary works our civilization has produced. This nose has never loafed an hour in its life, a paragon among nostrils, possessed of an olfactory—" He stopped, inhaled sharply. "What?" He sniffed a second time, started to sit up.