The Tree of Story Read Free Page B

heavy-set, dark-skinned man almost as large and imposing as the wildman himself. He was sitting against a pile of bedrolls and other gear, plucking the strings of a scuffed and battered lute.
    “Where do you hail from, friend?” the wildman asked.
    “I might ask you the same question,” the man said in a thick, unfamiliar accent. He gave them all a coldly appraising look that included a suspicious scowl at Shade, then went back to playing his lute.
    “This is our home,” Balor said, clearly struggling to hold in his anger. “We’ve just returned from a long journey and it’s a bit surprising to find all of you camped on our doorstep.”
    “That it must be,” the man said, and his look softened. “Forgive me. We’ve been on a long and tiring journey, too. I am Jodo Flyte, captain of bowmen and troubadour. We’re soldiers of the Red Duke, whom some call Bearskin, from the many-towered city of Tintamarre. Perhaps you’ve heard of us.”
    “I’ve heard of the Red Duke of Tintamarre,” Balor exclaimed. “He’s said to be a great leader of men. But his city’s so far from here. No one I know has ever been there.”
    “It’s far enough, to be sure. We’ve been on the march for twenty-seven days. Only just arrived late last night and some of us are still waiting for our breakfast.”
    “I’m sorry to hear that. I’m Balor Gruff, knight-errant of Fable, and these are my friends. But tell me, what brings you here in such numbers? There must be well over four hundred in your party.”
    “Nearly five hundred,” Flyte said. “Not long after we set out we met a company of musketeers from the kingdom of Sarras, our neighbours to the east. They were marching to your country for the same reason we were. To join in the battle.”
    “What battle would that be?”
    “The one that’s coming, Balor Gruff. It seems peaceful enough here right now, I realize, but the things we saw on the road. Houses and crops burned, bodies in the ditches. Folk everywhere fleeing their farms and villages. A few of them joined us. Farmers, smiths, carpenters. They were ready to fight, though they had no weapons other than hayforks and hammers. Nightbane of every foul breed are on the move, massing in great numbers and heading for your peaceful little country, my friends, raiding and burning as they go. I couldn’t tell you why, but it will all be decided here—and soon.”
    Balor looked up at the walls of Fable and then at his friends. “So we’ve heard,” he said.
    “Our Duke met with your Marshal last night when we arrived,” Flyte went on. “Fortunately Lord Caliburn heeded the Duke’s warnings.”
    “Well, I’m grateful you’ve come,” Balor said, “but how did you learn all of this in time to make such a long march?”
    “It’s a strange tale,” Flyte said. “We have had peace in Tintamarre for many years, but our Duke was still troubled. He was growing old and preparing to pass the rule of our land to younger men, but lately in his dreams he’d seen a city besieged and in flames, its people crying out to him for help. Yet where he might find this city, and when the battlewould be, he did not know. Then one night not long ago we were feasting in the great hall of the Duke’s castle when a bird flew in through one of the windows. A bloodcrow, it was. A bird of omen. It alighted on the table in front of the Duke, dropped something from its beak, then flew out another window before we had time to do more than marvel at what we had just seen. The crow had dropped a small, white, five-pointed flower. Nobody knew what to make of this. Then one of our oldest comrades, a veteran of many campaigns, spoke up. ‘That is the flower of the Errantry,’ he said. ‘I fought alongside knights of Fable when I was very young, at the battle of Hob’s Knock. They were good and valiant men.’
    “ ‘Then Fable is the city in my dream,’ the Duke announced. He ordered maps brought to him, and the way from Tintamarre to the