he talked, the Watcher nervously played with a small gold coin. It was a tick Frita no longer noticed. But the newcomer seemed mesmerized by the constant tumble of the gold piece.
In the end, He Who Laughs ran the elf-king down and slew him.
The ex-sailor from Itaskia said, “I don’t understand. Why was the king afraid of him if he wasn’t afraid of anybody else?”
For the first time the newcomer uttered more than a monosyllable. “The knight is a metaphor, my friend. He Who Laughs is one of the names of the male avatar, the hunter aspect, of Death. She sets that part of herself to stalk those who would evade her. The elves were supposed to have been immortal. The point of the story was that the king had grown so arrogant in his immortality that he dared challenge the Dark Lady, the Inevitable. Which is the grossest form of stupidity. Yet even today men persist in the folly of believing they can escape the inevitable.”
“Oh.”
All eyes were on the newcomer now. Especially that of the Watcher. The remark about the inevitable seemed to have touched his secret fears.
“Well then,” said the innkeeper. “Which wins? The pirate? The dragon? Or the lesson of the elf-king?”
Half a dozen little ones clamored for the dragon.
“Wait,” said the newcomer. His tone enforced instant silence. “I would like a turn.”
“By all means,” Frita nodded, eager to please. This man had begun to frighten him. Yet he was surprised. He hadn’t expected this dour, spooky stranger to contribute.
“This is a true story. The most interesting usually are. It began just a year ago, and hasn’t yet ended.
“There was a man, of no great stature or means, completely unimportant in the usual ways, who had the misfortune to be a friend of several powerful men. Now, it seems the enemies of those men thought they could attack them through him.
“They waylaid him one day as he was riding through the countryside....”
From beneath his hood the newcomer peered at the Watcher steadily. The one-eyed man tumbled his coin in a virtual blur.
“Just south of Vorgreberg....” the stranger said, almost too softly for any but the one-eyed man’s ears.
The Watcher surged up, a whimper in his throat as he dragged out a dagger. He hurled himself at the stranger.
One finger protruded from the newcomer’s sleeve. He said one word.
Smoke exploded from the Watcher’s chest. He flew backward, slammed against a wall. Women and children screamed. Men ducked under the table.
The stranger rose calmly, bundled himself tightly, and vanished into the frigid night.
Frita peeked from beneath the table. “He’s gone now.” He joined his surviving guests beside the body.
“He was a sorcerer,” the sailor muttered.
“Was that the man he was watching for?” Alowa asked. Her excitement was pure thrill.
“I think so. Yes. I think so.” Frita opened the Watcher’s shirt.
“Who was he?” the sailor asked.
“This here fellow’s version of He Who Laughs, I reckon, the way he went on.”
“Look at this,” said the other man. He had recovered the coin the dead man had dropped when going for his knife. “You don’t see many of these. From Hammad al Nakir.”
“Uhm,” Frita grunted. The silver coin the stranger had given him had been of the same source, but of an earlier mintage.
Bared, the dead man’s chest appeared virtually uninjured. The only mark was a small crown branded over his heart.
“Hey,” said the ex-sailor. “I’ve seen that mark before. It’s got, something to do with the refugees from Hammad al Nakir, doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” Frita replied. “We shared our meal with a celebrity. With a king.”
“Really?” Alowa’s eyes were large. “I touched him....”
The sailor shuddered. “I hope I never see him again. Not that one. If he’s who I think you mean. He’s accursed. Death and war follow him wherever he goes....”
“Yes,” Frita agreed. “I wonder what evil brought him to
In the end, He Who Laughs ran the elf-king down and slew him.
The ex-sailor from Itaskia said, “I don’t understand. Why was the king afraid of him if he wasn’t afraid of anybody else?”
For the first time the newcomer uttered more than a monosyllable. “The knight is a metaphor, my friend. He Who Laughs is one of the names of the male avatar, the hunter aspect, of Death. She sets that part of herself to stalk those who would evade her. The elves were supposed to have been immortal. The point of the story was that the king had grown so arrogant in his immortality that he dared challenge the Dark Lady, the Inevitable. Which is the grossest form of stupidity. Yet even today men persist in the folly of believing they can escape the inevitable.”
“Oh.”
All eyes were on the newcomer now. Especially that of the Watcher. The remark about the inevitable seemed to have touched his secret fears.
“Well then,” said the innkeeper. “Which wins? The pirate? The dragon? Or the lesson of the elf-king?”
Half a dozen little ones clamored for the dragon.
“Wait,” said the newcomer. His tone enforced instant silence. “I would like a turn.”
“By all means,” Frita nodded, eager to please. This man had begun to frighten him. Yet he was surprised. He hadn’t expected this dour, spooky stranger to contribute.
“This is a true story. The most interesting usually are. It began just a year ago, and hasn’t yet ended.
“There was a man, of no great stature or means, completely unimportant in the usual ways, who had the misfortune to be a friend of several powerful men. Now, it seems the enemies of those men thought they could attack them through him.
“They waylaid him one day as he was riding through the countryside....”
From beneath his hood the newcomer peered at the Watcher steadily. The one-eyed man tumbled his coin in a virtual blur.
“Just south of Vorgreberg....” the stranger said, almost too softly for any but the one-eyed man’s ears.
The Watcher surged up, a whimper in his throat as he dragged out a dagger. He hurled himself at the stranger.
One finger protruded from the newcomer’s sleeve. He said one word.
Smoke exploded from the Watcher’s chest. He flew backward, slammed against a wall. Women and children screamed. Men ducked under the table.
The stranger rose calmly, bundled himself tightly, and vanished into the frigid night.
Frita peeked from beneath the table. “He’s gone now.” He joined his surviving guests beside the body.
“He was a sorcerer,” the sailor muttered.
“Was that the man he was watching for?” Alowa asked. Her excitement was pure thrill.
“I think so. Yes. I think so.” Frita opened the Watcher’s shirt.
“Who was he?” the sailor asked.
“This here fellow’s version of He Who Laughs, I reckon, the way he went on.”
“Look at this,” said the other man. He had recovered the coin the dead man had dropped when going for his knife. “You don’t see many of these. From Hammad al Nakir.”
“Uhm,” Frita grunted. The silver coin the stranger had given him had been of the same source, but of an earlier mintage.
Bared, the dead man’s chest appeared virtually uninjured. The only mark was a small crown branded over his heart.
“Hey,” said the ex-sailor. “I’ve seen that mark before. It’s got, something to do with the refugees from Hammad al Nakir, doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” Frita replied. “We shared our meal with a celebrity. With a king.”
“Really?” Alowa’s eyes were large. “I touched him....”
The sailor shuddered. “I hope I never see him again. Not that one. If he’s who I think you mean. He’s accursed. Death and war follow him wherever he goes....”
“Yes,” Frita agreed. “I wonder what evil brought him to
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