used his hands' freely while speaking. He had trouble moving his left arm. Frita had seen it bare. He had taken a deep wound in the past.
"Long ago and far away," the Watcher began, in the storyteller's fashion, "in a time when elves still walked the earth, there was a great elf-king. Mical-gilad was his name, and his passion, conquest. He was a mighty warrior, undefeated in battle or joust. He and his twelve paladins were champions of the world till the events whereof I speak."
Frita frowned, leaned back. A story new to him. A pity its teller had little feel for the art.
"One day a knight appeared at the gates of the elf-king's castle. His shield bore an unknown coat of arms. His horse was twice as big as life and black as coal. The gate guards refused him passage. He laughed at them. The gates collapsed."
Yes, Frita thought, it would make a tale in the mouth of a competent teller. The Watcher described the elf-king's encoun-ter with He Who Laughs, after the stranger had slain his twelve champions. He then fought the king himself, who overcame him by trickery, but couldn't kill him because of the unbreachable spells on his armor.
Frita thought he saw where it was going. He had heard so many tales that even the best had become predictable. It was a moral tale about the futility of trying to evade the inevitable.
The elf-king had his opponent thrown on a dung heap outside his castle, whereupon He Who Laughs promised another, more terrible meeting. And, sure enough, the next time the elf-king went a-conquering, he found the knight in black and gold riding with his enemies.
As 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.
"Long ago and far away," the Watcher began, in the storyteller's fashion, "in a time when elves still walked the earth, there was a great elf-king. Mical-gilad was his name, and his passion, conquest. He was a mighty warrior, undefeated in battle or joust. He and his twelve paladins were champions of the world till the events whereof I speak."
Frita frowned, leaned back. A story new to him. A pity its teller had little feel for the art.
"One day a knight appeared at the gates of the elf-king's castle. His shield bore an unknown coat of arms. His horse was twice as big as life and black as coal. The gate guards refused him passage. He laughed at them. The gates collapsed."
Yes, Frita thought, it would make a tale in the mouth of a competent teller. The Watcher described the elf-king's encoun-ter with He Who Laughs, after the stranger had slain his twelve champions. He then fought the king himself, who overcame him by trickery, but couldn't kill him because of the unbreachable spells on his armor.
Frita thought he saw where it was going. He had heard so many tales that even the best had become predictable. It was a moral tale about the futility of trying to evade the inevitable.
The elf-king had his opponent thrown on a dung heap outside his castle, whereupon He Who Laughs promised another, more terrible meeting. And, sure enough, the next time the elf-king went a-conquering, he found the knight in black and gold riding with his enemies.
As 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.
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