Chance Read Free

lost his voice again. If they had heard Roddarc’s bidding, then even in his lodge one of them had been listening. “You go everywhere,” he whispered. “You see everything.”
    â€œIt is our nature so to go, so to see. What do you want to know?”
    â€œWhere the rebels muster,” Chance said with a dry mouth. “Who is their leader. When they will strike.”
    The Denizen stopped his posturing and stood still in what might have been genuine perplexity.
    â€œSurely you know,” Chance urged.
    â€œI know full well. But why would I tell?”
    Chance stood with his mouth agape. “Why not?” he burst out at last, and the small woodsman warbled with laughter.
    â€œWhy not?” The little man turned to the listening forest. “What say ye? Should I tell?”
    There arose a piping clamor. A few strong voices shrilled above the others. “Tell! Tell!” cried one. “We love to meddle!” one sang out gaily. “And we meddle full well!” called another.
    But before the visible Denizen could speak, another appeared, from where Chance did not see, and stood on the branch beside the first. He was gray, like beech, and mossily bearded, and as massy of cock as his russet comrade, for all that he seemed older.
    â€œChance,” he said in a taut voice, “ten years you have averted your eyes. Now you grow unwise. Think again.”
    â€œThere will be a price to pay,” said the brown one, singsong, “a price to pay, some day, some way.”
    Their gaze met his as if from out of depths of another time, another order of being, and he knew that he was facing a power he could in no way control, relentless as fate, capricious as the turning of fortune’s wheel. Perhaps as cruel as old Lord Riol, and not likely to go away, like Riol, and die. The Denizens would live forever in the forest, and what they might do to him.…
    Still, he had to know. For Roddarc’s sake.
    â€œTell me,” he whispered. “I will pay when I must.” Whipping boy that I am , he thought.
    The forest fell to silence. The brown Denizen sat down on the bough; the gray one remained standing and spoke formally, with no attempt at rhyme.
    â€œThe rebels are gathering at Gallowstree Lea. Blake is their leader. Their numbers are small, fifty and a few, but they are clever. They will not need to penetrate the fortress. Roddarc will come to them, for they have with them a hostage.”
    â€œWho?” Chance demanded, though already he knew.
    â€œLady Halimeda.”
    All the miles to the fortress he ran. The day was more than half spent, but, powers be willing, there might yet be time—if the forest folk had told truth. He had heard tales, and he knew they might be making a jackass of him, burbling their uncanny laughter. Or betraying him, luring him off on a fool’s errand, perhaps setting him to lure Roddarc off on a fool’s errand while Blake took the fortress. The thought burned in him.
    But instinct told him that there was truth in them this one first time. Truth to make him always hope thereafter.
    Roddarc was at the gate, at horseback, with a troop of mounted followers, just setting out when Chance ran up to him, stumbling and streaming sweat and grasping at the steed’s mane for support.
    â€œHalimeda is missing,” Roddarc told him tersely.
    Chance nodded. Gasping for breath, he could not yet speak.
    â€œWhat is it, man! You have news of her?”
    â€œGallowstree Lea,” Chance panted, finding voice. “Blake, their leader. Fifty men. They will be expecting you.”
    Halimeda had gone on horseback and left a plain trail. Roddarc rode grimly along it, with Chance on a warhorse beside him but not armed for war. When they neared the lea, they dismounted and left their steeds and men, stalking ahead to scout the enemy’s preparations. It was not fitting that the Lord of Wirralmark should do this; Chance should have