Colwyn smiled. 'A common complaint, often justified. A king is often too distanced from his people. Blame him not for the occasional excesses of minor bureaucrats. Answer me, man. Would you follow a king to the Black Fortress?'
At that Torquil relaxed, smiled at Sweyn. 'See? I told you. You worry too much. We've nothing to fear from these three.' He turned back to Colwyn. 'I confess you had me going for a while there, stranger, with your facile chatter of kings and followers. You play neat with words, but now I know that you're a lunatic. The Black Fortress!' He and Sweyn silently shared the grim joke.
'I wouldn't follow my own father to the Black Fortress, stranger. Not that he'd be fool enough to go there. Even if it could be reached, there's nothing to be found there save death and destruction, and those I can find in more manageable quantities right here. D'you think I'm as mad as you, that I'd flee civil war in order to meet a worse death than any captain of guards could mete out?'
'Is it mad,' Colwyn asked softly, 'to want to defend your world?'
'World? What is this talk of a 'world'? Once I had a village to call home. A warlord burned it to the ground. Now I have no home, and certainly no 'world.' '
'All Krull suffers at the hands of the Slayers.'
'All Krull suffers at the hand of winter,' Rhun snapped mockingly, 'but we don't try to fight the seasons. We'd fare as well if we went against the Slayers.'
'It's true the Slayers are different from ordinary warriors, but they are mortal. They can be slain.'
'So what?' Torquil challenged him. 'Kill a Slayer and ten more appear to avenge him.'
'All the Slayers come from the lair of the Beast, which is the Black Fortress. Defeat the Beast and you defeat all the Slayers.'
'You talk more foolishness.'
'Is it foolish to fight for your homes and families? Is it foolish to fight for your children's sake? If that's not worth fighting for, what is? If these invaders conquer, you won't even keep the independence of escaped prisoners, for all men will become prisoners.'
'Noble sentiments,' said a new voice as its owner showed himself, 'except that we fight for profit. Gold— that's worth fighting for.' Murmurs of assent sounded from the rocks. Not many, Colwyn thought. Certainly far fewer than a hundred. Perhaps no more than a dozen.
'Where is the profit in your fight?' the man asked.
'The profit is freedom,' Colwyn told him, 'and fame.'
'Freedom we have,' Torquil replied, 'and fame is an empty purse. Count it and go broke, eat it and go hungry, seek it and go mad. Fame is what fools yearn for and wise men shun.'
Ynyr turned in his saddle and spoke for the first time. To those who had never heard the old man speak, there was a peculiarly arresting quality to his soft, cutting tone. Torquil and his followers listened in spite of themselves.
'Fame is what you leave to your children.'
Torquil gaped at him, tried to see through the white-haired figure straddling the other horse. 'You know nothing of me. How did you know I have children?'
'I know many things.'
'Save us,' Rhun grumbled tiredly. 'Not another wise man. They afflict the earth these days as badly as would-be kings.'
'I know of your children,' Ynyr explained, 'because of the way your eyes move when you speak of homes. I know of your children because of the way you stand and the way your lips and tongue curl round certain words and phrases. I know of them because of the inflection in your voice and the distant mistiness in your eyes when you say the word.
'I tell you that there is no future for them in a world controlled and ravaged by the Beast and his creatures. There is no safety for them, nowhere to hide, no future for them to look forward to. You say you have freedom? That is foolish talk indeed. You are slaves already, just as we are, for all that you may choose to ignore the chains that bind you. Time now for men of bravery to act. Time now to break those chains so that children may mature in ignorance of them.'
'If the Slayers conquer all Krull,' Colwyn added, seeing how Ynyr's words had shaken the bandit chief, 'your children will be enslaved forever.'
'Words.' Torquil wrestled with an inner demon. 'You twist words like a solicitor. How much is truth and how much built on this accursed fog, I cannot tell.'
'What are we to do, Torquil?' asked an impatient, uncertain voice from behind a dead oak.
'Aye, the old man makes sense,' said another.
'Shut up, you idiots, before the one who carries his sword as carefully as a swaddling babe learns each of your positions!' The woods went quiet.
But one of Torquil's band didn't wait for his chiefs decision. The slim youth who stepped forward looked out of place alongside such experienced ruffians as Torquil and Sweyn. You had to look deeply into his eyes to see the pain and torment of an unhappy life, of events that had driven him into such company. Torquil frowned but said nothing.
'My name is Oswyn,' the youth declared. 'I am no chief and I have no children, but I do have a mind of my own.' He glanced across at Torquil. 'The old man speaks truth. I do think he uses his tongue not to twist words but to impart them. I have been a slave too long already.' He looked up at Colwyn and lowered his voice.
'I will go with you. I have seen what the Slayers do to helpless villages and people. I would rather die fighting them with a sword in my hand.'
'Thank you,' said Colwyn gratefully. He looked off into the woods as he fingered his father's medallion, his eyes searching trees and rocks. 'I need men to follow me. Men who are not afraid of Slayers or their own feelings. This boy is more man than any of you who hide behind selfish desires and trees. He shames you all.'
The key he removed from the obverse of the medallion was small but solid and very complex in design. He was taking a chance, he knew, in showing it to the desperate men who confronted him, but it seemed like a worthwhile risk. If they fought and he died here, they would likely discover it anyway. Neighboring kingdoms cooperated in such matters and this bog was not far from Turold. It seemed reasonable to assume that the key would work.
'Oswyn, give me your wrists.' Uncertain but unafraid, the youth moved close. Colwyn slipped the key into the lock on the boy's right manacle and twisted. For a second nothing happened, but a little determined jiggling was rewarded by a gratifyingly loud snap. The manacle was rusty and full of grime. He repeated the action with the left band.
Oswyn backed away, rubbing his freed wrists and looking repeatedly from them to his benefactor. Colwyn sat back on his horse and tried to present a properly regal appearance. He was not very good at it and he kept one hand on the hilt of his sword.
The youth hesitated, still watching Colwyn, then bent and picked up the pair of opened manacles. He turned and wordlessly heaved them as far into the fog as he could. A distant splash told where they fell. When he turned back to Colwyn again, he was smiling.
Torquil had watched closely. Now he frowned thoughtfully up at Colwyn from beneath heavy brows, still not quite willing to countenance what his own eyes had just seen.
After a long moment he finally murmured carefully, 'Only a king or a lord marshal would have keys to manacles like these, and you don't look much like a lord marshal. You're giving it a good try up on that fine horse, but somehow it doesn't suit you.'
Colwyn relaxed in the saddle and grinned. 'No, I guess it doesn't. You're right, fellow. I'm no lord marshal.'
Torquil rubbed at his whiskers. 'Matter of fact, what you do look like is about the right age to be the son of a certain king.'
'Anything's possible,' Colwyn admitted.
'King Turold's son, to be more precise.'
'The exact age, in fact.'
Torquil sighed and shook his head ruefully. 'Ah, Torquil,' he mumbled to himself, 'it must be that you are growing old. Your brain is softening.'
