Unbound (21 page)

“Just point me in the right direction,” Ben snapped. “I’ll find a way to deal with the Kringe.”

“Oh, you will, will you? How do you plan to accomplish this? Will you grow your feet bigger? Or make the Kringe smaller? Maybe you can just keep stomping on them over and over until they are flattened? That should only take a week or two, if you are persistent. And if they agree to remain still and not simply eat you.”

Ben held his ground. “Well, what do you suggest?”

“I suggest you turn around and go home until you find a better way of dealing with things. This task is beyond you.”

There was a long pause as Ben and the dragon eyed each other. Ben felt his chances for accomplishing anything slipping away. Strabo was right about him. It was difficult to accept, but when you came right down to it his reign as King of Landover had been largely ineffective. He should be better at what he did. He should be able to accomplish more. He was the ruler of an entire kingdom and responsible for its inhabitants and their welfare. Yet so much of what happened seemed to simply overwhelm him, to defy his best efforts and end up requiring others to provide solutions.

Now a talking dragon, no less, was taunting him with his failures. It was humiliating.

When he had left his old world behind after the death of his wife and daughter and abandoned the practice of law in the wake of his discouragement over its inadequacies and failings, he had thought coming to Landover to become King could provide him with a fresh start and a chance to accomplish something important. Never mind that he knew rationally Landover could not possibly exist and his chances of becoming King were next to zero. Never mind that he found on his arrival that nothing was as he had thought it would be and virtually everything occupying this strange world seemed to be set against him. What had mattered was that he believed in his heart of hearts it might be possible to start anew. Here was the chance he had been hoping for. This new life was what he had come searching for.

When it turned out his faith might be rewarded, he had been both flustered and excited by its prospects. But by now, almost twenty years into his reign, his expectations and hopes had taken a beating. He was weary of the struggle, and more and more frequently he wondered if he had accomplished anything at all. That he was married to Willow and was the father of Mistaya were things he could point to with pride. But they were not things he could point to when claiming he had achieved anything. It didn’t seem enough to be able to say he had set out to be King and now he was. It didn’t seem adequate that he had made the transition from lawyer in one world to King in another without being able to identify what exactly he had accomplished by doing so. It didn’t feel sufficient that he had spent the better part of his twenty-year rule putting out fires.

Kings, he thought, were supposed to rule. But how much ruling had he actually done?

He wasn’t a ruler. Not really. He was mostly a manager.

How could he take any pride in that?

Yet Kings really
were
managers when you came right down to it, weren’t they? Kings didn’t rule their kingdoms, no matter what they might tell themselves; they managed them. Just like leaders of countries everywhere, even back in his old world. All those leaders of nations seeking to make great changes and leave deep footprints? Mostly what they did was manage things as best they could while trying not to muck up the status quo. Those who ruled in any other way did so by domination and brute force. He could never be like that. He wasn’t built for it. Maybe that was what Strabo expected of him but it wasn’t what he was prepared to give.

Besides, he knew he was better off as a manager than he would ever be as a ruler. It suited him perfectly and gave him something he could feel confident about. It provided him with goals he could reasonably expect to attain.

And just like that, he had an idea.

“In spite of what you think,” he said suddenly, breaking the silence, “I take my position as King of Landover seriously. I know my responsibilities, and I know what I must do to exercise them. But I know that I have my limitations too. Obviously, this is one such time. Stamping out giant insects is not an integral part of my skill set. So I have a better idea. You do it for me. For me, as your King, and for Landover, as your country, and for yourself so you may receive Landover’s Gold Medal for Exceptional Service.”

Strabo glared at him. “What are you talking about? Aside from the fact that I have no intention of helping you, there is no such award.”

“As a matter of fact, there is. It was conceived of and designed by Landover’s Queen Willow. The award was her idea. New, yes. No one has yet proved worthy enough to receive it. But you could be the first. I have reason to think I can persuade her to award it to you. I will certainly recommend it, since I have no reason to want to have any further dealings with the Kringe. If she agrees, she will bestow it on you personally.”

“I don’t have any need of medals or awards or . . . that sort.” He paused, thinking. “Of what is this metal is it made, Holiday? Gold, perhaps?”

Ben nodded. “Featuring a fist-sized emerald set within the center of a graven image of your face, since you would be its first recipient. Also, there is something to be said about being the center of attention at an awards ceremony featuring a Queen as lovely and kind and good as our own. Don’t you think?”

Landover’s histories recorded that dragons, even ones as large and ferocious and uncompromising as Strabo, had a soft spot for beautiful women and precious metals. Hopefully, offering both together would prove irresistible.

Strabo had gone silent, looking off into the distance. Ben waited, holding his breath. “Hmmm,” the dragon mused. “An attractive offer, I admit. The pretty sylph giving me an award. It does seem appropriate, even for so paltry a task as this one.” He paused. “But, I wonder. Could it be designated as more of a Lifetime Achievement award?”

“Done!” Ben said at once.
Yes!
“Congratulations. Recipient of the first Gold Medal for Exceptional Service to Landover! This is a proud moment for all of us.”

The dragon drew himself up and nodded. “I suppose it is, isn’t it?”

Ben smiled. “Now all you have to do is rid us of those flying insects, and an awards ceremony can be scheduled.”

Strabo spread his wings wide. “Wait right here.”

Lifting his great horned head, he breathed out a stream of fire that momentarily swept the sky and rained ash and smoke all over Ben. Then he spread his wings, and with an earth-shaking roar lifted off. Wind from his passing flattened grasses, scrub, and living creatures alike before he disappeared into the blue of the midday sky and was gone.

After awhile, from not too far off, there came the sounds of stamping. The earth shook and the air was filled with further roaring, and then there was silence.

Seconds later Questor appeared at Ben’s elbow, his wizened face pinched with distaste. “Well, that was unnecessarily showy,” he declared.

Ben nodded and turned away. Unsurprisingly, he was in a much better mood.

* * * * *

Several days later, he received another unannounced visit from the G’Home Gnomes. Filip, Sot, and Shoopdiesel appeared on his castle doorstep in the company of a fourth gnome. This latest addition to the little band was another of those he had previously encountered and survived, an ingratiating fellow called Poggwydd. This time he didn’t wait for the gnomes to be brought in, but went down himself to greet them at the gates. He ushered them inside and took them the kitchen, sat them down and had them fed. While they ate, he sat with them and waited patiently to learn what had brought them here this time.

Finally, when Poggwydd finished his meal, he cleared his throat loudly and rose to his feet. The other three immediately rose with him, heads lowered. Only Poggwydd spoke.

“On behalf of my companions, I want to assure you, High Lord, they are very sorry for all the trouble they have caused. They regret they were so foolish and unthinking in their behavior regarding the . . .”

He paused and leaned close to Filip. “Yes, the Filipians. All of them wish to apologize for their actions. They have promised not to try to find any more of these . . . creatures. And further promised never to try to bring one home again. All they ask is that you forgive them and tell them you are still their friend.”

He stopped talking. All of them waited on him, the three with downcast looks occasionally glancing up to reveal expressions that would have been downright heartbreaking on most creatures but merely looked muddle-headed on them. But Ben had seen those looks before at other times and after similar promises, so he knew they were as genuine as G’Home Gnomes could make them. It was just too bad they couldn’t ever seem to follow through.

Manage, not rule
. He said the words to himself and smiled.

He faced the Gnomes squarely. “I do forgive you,” he said to them aloud. “And I am still your friend.”

Curiously enough, he meant it.

Harry Connolly

In Holvos lands, every patch of blue sky was a kindness. The endless rainfalls made the canals overtop themselves monthly, it seemed. Where farmers in other parts of the continent struggled to find enough fresh water, here they dug drainage canals and prayed for an early end to spring floods. Song knew they could use a bountiful year, if the news from the north was accurate.

Despite the fact that a rare clear sky granted even rarer visibility, Alinder deployed the scouts far ahead of the troops, checking in three times a day. So far there had been nothing unusual, but they were only three days’ walk out of Rivershelf, and war had broken out.

At least, that was the rumor. Peradain had fallen, quite suddenly, and the conquered peoples of the Peradaini empire, Holvos included, were without a master for the first time in generations. Rumor also had it that King Ellifer and his wife had been assassinated by soldiers wearing dyed furs, and that the prince—old enough now to take the throne himself—had fled in terror.

She glanced at the Red Salt River on their right. The ridge road had been built to give troops a commanding view of the waters, allowing Alinder to see clearly that there was no one on the far bank. The fin of a river shark glided upstream and the okshim beside her, always skittish creatures, jolted forward, rattling the cartload of supplies they pulled. Alinder hurried ahead of them; when the beasts became nervous, they sometimes kicked.

It was peaceful here. The salt grass, the rice paddies on the western side of the road, the river rippling in the breeze. Her homelands were beautiful and now they belonged to her again.

Song knew Alinder herself did not much care what happened within the imperial capital. The Little Spinner never slowed; everything that began also ended. The thought made her smile. Peradain was less than a month’s travel by road, but she had never loved her master just because his whip hand was near.

One of the scouts came running back along the ridge road to
make
her report to the captain. Alinder gestured to her children:
Come along
. The captain would not think to include them, but they were Tyr Holvos’s heirs and they needed to learn.

Shoaw and Shawa did not run, but they did not dawdle, either. The three of them took up places beside the captain before the scout arrived. A slight twist in the corner of the captain’s mouth betrayed his annoyance but he could not order them away. Alinder was elder sister and counsel to the tyr, and her fourteen-year-old son was the tyr’s eldest male heir.

With a sudden thrill, she realized that, if Peradain had truly fallen, there was nothing to stop them from throwing out the whole business of kings, tyrants, and tyrs, and return to the traditional rule by family council. The tyr system, imposed on them for the convenience of the throne in Peradain, was no longer necessary. Goose bumps ran down Alinder’s back as she imagined herself seated beside the tyr her brother as his equal. Finally.

“It is as we feared,” the scout said. Alinder was startled by how young and scrawny she looked. She still had pimples on her cheeks. Not much for fighting, probably, but a capable spy.

“What numbers for our enemy?” the captain asked.

“None,” the spy said. “The enemy has come, broken the gates, and withdrawn again. They have left okshim carts and supplies in the courtyard.”

“And the troops within?”

“Many dead, captain. More are missing.”

“Could Ronnet have engaged this enemy without sending an alarm to the divisions in the south? He knew his duty.”

The scout had no answer and the captain didn’t seem to expect one.

“We must withdraw,” Alinder said. “Not all of us,” she added quickly, before the captain could voice his objection, “but if the enemy has come so far, the tyr’s heirs should return to the walls of Rivershelf.”

Shoaw shook his head. “I won’t. I’ll accompany the troops to the outpost, so I can help care for the wounded.” He turned to the captain. “We’ll need the cart and okshim, won’t we? To carry the wounded back home?”

“He’s right,” Shawa added. “If the enemy has withdrawn, we should help. I want to help.”