possible, I’d like to keep the ‘daring’ to a minimum.”
“But how am I supposed to make a name for myself?”
“Easy. You lie.”
“Lie? A true Hero would never do that.”
“Okay, how many Heroes do you know kid?”
“Well there’s Uthgar, and Frowen, and C’huhoyle…”
“C’huhoyle my squeaky wagon wheels! Not Heroes from sagas. Not dead guys you heard about in a song someplace. I mean, how many honest to Gods Heroes do you know? Had a beer with?”
“Uh…”
“Take your time. Make sure you count them all,” Boltac said as he let the soothing clip clop of the horse’s hooves and the tranquil beauty of the forest road lull him into a kind of trance.
“None,” interrupted Relan.
“Did you miss any? I mean is that an exact count? Because, as a Merchant, I can tell you, it is important to be precise with figures.”
“Okay, okay, you’ve made your point.” Relan said, staring off into the trees.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. There are two possible reasons for this, and pay attention, because they are closely linked. One, everybody who sets out to be a Hero gets killed. And two, there’s no such things as Heroes.”
“That’s not true. That can’t be true! Why, there have to be Heroes. Who else would look out for the poor and the unfortunate?”
“The poor and the unfortunate either look out for themselves or… well, or they just keep being really poor and unfortunate.”
“That’s terrible. That’s the most awful thing I’ve ever heard.”
Boltac shrugged. “Hey, these are dark ages in which we live. I don’t make the rules. I don’t even like the rules.”
“The rules suck. And I think you have it wrong.”
“I wish I did,” said Boltac, “but there’s nothing either of us can do to change it.”
They rode on in silence for a long time. Finally, Boltac grew so bored he decided to try again.
“Kid, do you know why people fight wars?”
“To win?”
“Nobody wins in a war, except the guy selling swords and armor. No, people fight wars to put themselves in a better negotiating position.”
“Not for Love, or Honor, or a Righteous Cause?”
“Not in my experience.”
“But in the songs…”
“Kid, they’re songs.
Songs.
As in, not real.”
“They’re real to me.”
“En-henh. And that’s great, but the point here is that fighting is stupid. Negotiation is power.”
“I don’t think–”
“Yeah, I figured that one out already. Just trust me; if we can bribe our way in and out of this thing, everybody will be a lot happier. And a lot more alive. Hey kid, you mind taking the reins for a while? I’m still a little woozy from that potion.”
“Woozy? But it was Magic!”
“Trust me, the hangover you get from Magic is the worst kind of hangover there is. I’m gonna sleep it off in the back. Don’t go chasing after anybody while I’m asleep.”
18
Rattick was no Hero. Like all true survivors, he always seemed to find ways to profit from the misfortune of others. So at the first sign of trouble, he slunk into the alleys of Robrecht. While Orcs marauded through the town and fire ravaged the buildings, he kept to the shadows, looting corpses where he could, burgling a store here and there, until finally he reached the north gate. He found a horse in the guard’s stable and was gone into the night without a second thought.
When Rattick reached the forest, he abandoned the horse and worked his way along the road from twenty yards into the woods. When he grew tired, he climbed a tree, wrapped himself in his cloak, and tried to nap. His sleep did not last long, for he was awakened by the sounds of the raiding party returning from Robrecht. Horrible things on wolves crying “Hork, Hork, Hork!” as they rode the unlit roads. Rattick wondered what Treasure they had taken from the town. Probably just people, for food. But just in case, he followed their tracks, looking for dropped baubles by the light of a waning moon.
The raid was bad
“But how am I supposed to make a name for myself?”
“Easy. You lie.”
“Lie? A true Hero would never do that.”
“Okay, how many Heroes do you know kid?”
“Well there’s Uthgar, and Frowen, and C’huhoyle…”
“C’huhoyle my squeaky wagon wheels! Not Heroes from sagas. Not dead guys you heard about in a song someplace. I mean, how many honest to Gods Heroes do you know? Had a beer with?”
“Uh…”
“Take your time. Make sure you count them all,” Boltac said as he let the soothing clip clop of the horse’s hooves and the tranquil beauty of the forest road lull him into a kind of trance.
“None,” interrupted Relan.
“Did you miss any? I mean is that an exact count? Because, as a Merchant, I can tell you, it is important to be precise with figures.”
“Okay, okay, you’ve made your point.” Relan said, staring off into the trees.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. There are two possible reasons for this, and pay attention, because they are closely linked. One, everybody who sets out to be a Hero gets killed. And two, there’s no such things as Heroes.”
“That’s not true. That can’t be true! Why, there have to be Heroes. Who else would look out for the poor and the unfortunate?”
“The poor and the unfortunate either look out for themselves or… well, or they just keep being really poor and unfortunate.”
“That’s terrible. That’s the most awful thing I’ve ever heard.”
Boltac shrugged. “Hey, these are dark ages in which we live. I don’t make the rules. I don’t even like the rules.”
“The rules suck. And I think you have it wrong.”
“I wish I did,” said Boltac, “but there’s nothing either of us can do to change it.”
They rode on in silence for a long time. Finally, Boltac grew so bored he decided to try again.
“Kid, do you know why people fight wars?”
“To win?”
“Nobody wins in a war, except the guy selling swords and armor. No, people fight wars to put themselves in a better negotiating position.”
“Not for Love, or Honor, or a Righteous Cause?”
“Not in my experience.”
“But in the songs…”
“Kid, they’re songs.
Songs.
As in, not real.”
“They’re real to me.”
“En-henh. And that’s great, but the point here is that fighting is stupid. Negotiation is power.”
“I don’t think–”
“Yeah, I figured that one out already. Just trust me; if we can bribe our way in and out of this thing, everybody will be a lot happier. And a lot more alive. Hey kid, you mind taking the reins for a while? I’m still a little woozy from that potion.”
“Woozy? But it was Magic!”
“Trust me, the hangover you get from Magic is the worst kind of hangover there is. I’m gonna sleep it off in the back. Don’t go chasing after anybody while I’m asleep.”
18
Rattick was no Hero. Like all true survivors, he always seemed to find ways to profit from the misfortune of others. So at the first sign of trouble, he slunk into the alleys of Robrecht. While Orcs marauded through the town and fire ravaged the buildings, he kept to the shadows, looting corpses where he could, burgling a store here and there, until finally he reached the north gate. He found a horse in the guard’s stable and was gone into the night without a second thought.
When Rattick reached the forest, he abandoned the horse and worked his way along the road from twenty yards into the woods. When he grew tired, he climbed a tree, wrapped himself in his cloak, and tried to nap. His sleep did not last long, for he was awakened by the sounds of the raiding party returning from Robrecht. Horrible things on wolves crying “Hork, Hork, Hork!” as they rode the unlit roads. Rattick wondered what Treasure they had taken from the town. Probably just people, for food. But just in case, he followed their tracks, looking for dropped baubles by the light of a waning moon.
The raid was bad
Similar Books
