Hederick The Theocrat (16 page)

“None that I know of.” “Good.” , The monster suddenly materialized in front of them,
towering over them, a warhammer hanging from one paw and a spear balanced in the other.
Its eyes were pale, its fur coarse and dark. Wedge- shaped ears rose from the top of its
head, and lips wrinkled back from long fangs. It grunted and snarled as it jabbed at them
with the spear. Suddenly, the monster roared and swung its hammer at Mynx. She took
advantage of the beast's outflung paw to leap forward and slice its forearm from elbow to
wrist. It squealed and thrust the limb under one of the hides that protected it. Its
mismatched armor clanked and jangled in the still night. It whirled, forcing them back to
avoid the needle-sharp edge of its spear. And all the while it kept shrieking. “It'll soon
bring the guards down on us, if it doesn't kill us first,” Tarscenian hissed. “We'll have
to kill it, then,” Mynx said calmly. Without hesitation, she ducked and dove under the
whirling spear. Then she leaped again, burying her dagger to the hilt in the bugbear's
side. The bugbear moved quickly, though, and caught the thief in the abdomen with a clawed
paw, flinging her high over Tarscenian's head. The movement left the creature exposed. In
an instant, Tarscenian thrust his sword into the bugbear's belly and wrenched the weapon
to one side. The creature stood for a moment, entrails spilling onto the ground, then it
pitched forward with a horrible scream. Tarscenian whirled. Mynx was just sitting up
behind him, rubbing her head and rearranging her skirt and blouse. “Come on!” Tarscenian
shouted. “Before any guards get here!” He pulled her to her feet, mindless of any injuries
she might have suffered. Mynx shook her head to clear it. “Next time I go hunting
bugbears, I won't wear a skirt,” she muttered. Then she raced over to the dead creature,
pulled her dagger from its ribs, and sprinted into the trees. Tarscenian followed a few
paces behind. He could hear the cries of an approaching phalanx of guards. They ran
through the underbrush beneath the vallen-woods until their sides ached, then dove behind
the huge trees to conceal themselves until blue-and-gold-clad guards pounded past. Despite
the noise, the walkways remained deserted above them; no one ventured forth from the
safety of the tree-homes. Tarscenian paused at a fork in the path. Mynx skidded to a stop.
“What is it?” she hissed. Tarscenian pointed to the left. “They're coming from that way.
And the other way, too. And from behind us as well.” He bounded off the path into the
underbrush, burrowing beneath thick ferns. He hoped she had the sense to follow and hide
herself. The three groups of guards almost collided where the paths met. The air filled
with oaths as each contingent accused the other of missing the quarry. Finally an
authoritative voice cut through the rest. “They could be hiding anywhere around here.” The
leader ordered the guardstwo dozen or so, as near as Tarscenian could guessto fan out.
“Beat the underbrush,” the leader ordered. “Who are we looking for?” “Whoever killed the
bugbear, you idiot.” “Fine, but who's that?” The captain answered with curses. Tarscenian
heard him muttering as he and his partners began to wade through the ferns and bracken. It
would be only a matter of moments before one of the guards stumbled over Tarscenian or
Mynx. They'd have to make a stand. The guards were nearing, and Tarscenian was gathering
himself to leap up and confront them when a whistling sound brought him up short. He'd
heard that sound somewhere. A hoopak? “Hey, you hopeless pack of overdecorated ninnies!”
The voice was high-pitched and sarcastic. “Did you lose something?” “It's the kender!” one
of the guards cried. “Forget the kender,” the captain shouted. “We're looking for whoever
killed ...” “... the bugbear!” Kifflewit interrupted. “That's me. Up here.” Tarscenian
raised his head slowly until only a few inches of ferns covered him. He looked up.

There was Kifflewit, leaning far over the edge of a walkway, brown topknot bobbing, waving
gaily to the guards. His hand held a familiar-looking dagger, the one the woman from
Throtl had wanted to sell. No doubt the kender had “found” it during their adventure in
the refugee market earlier in the evening. Tarscenian heard a muffled snort off to his
left, and realized Mynx had spied the kender, too.

The captain ordered his men to ignore Kifflewit's taunts. “No kender could kill a
bugbear,” he scoffed. “Except this kender had a magic dagger,” Kifflewit rejoined. “It was
terrific! I didn't even have to hold on to it. It knew the bugbear wanted to hurt me, so
it flew across the clearing, smack into the creature! Then it flew right back to me! Isn't
that splendid? Want to see it?”

“It's possible,” a guard ventured. “We found no weapon.” Kifflewit giggled, leaning even
farther over the walkway. “You overpaid losers!” he taunted. “What? Did Hederick get you
at a group discount? Cheaper by the dozen? Or do you pay him, so you can pretend you have
a job?” The men began to grumble. This same kender had caused them a bundle of trouble
earlier in the night. He'd gotten away before, purely by luck. He dared to ridicule them
now? “Come down here, kender,” the captain commanded. “Ah, no,” Kifflewit said,
snickering. “I do believe I have an appointment elsewhere. I can't wait to tell my friends
how one little kender outwitted two dozen Seeker guards. My, what a good story that will
be! Bye-bye, ladies! Don't muss your petticoats during your search!” He waved again
happily and scooted off down the walkway. “Ladies?” the captain exploded. In an instant,
the guards went howling after the kender. Moments later, Tarscenian and Mynx were alone
amid the silent ferns. The old man rose stiffly to his feet and found Mynx already
upright. “That kender,” she said, shaking her head. “I owe him one.” “He's a tough little
rascal,” Tarscenian concluded softly. “Maybe you and Gaveley ought to recruit him.” Mynx
took Tarscenian's hand. “Come on,” she said. “We still have a way to go.” Tarscenian
started to protest, then found himself pulled down the path. Although the night's
activities had left him virtually exhausted, he did his best to keep up with the agile
thief. At long last Mynx stopped. She swung under the low-hanging branches of a thick pine
tree and disappeared. Tarscenian dropped to his knees and followed, cursing when a pine
needle drove into his shin like a porcupine quill. There was no sign of the thief. Then a
hand grasped his in the dark. Tarscenian pitched into nothingness, dropped a short
distance, and landed with a bone-jarring thump on packed earth. “What in” he complained.
“Now what?” “I have to say, physical grace is not one of your talents, Tarscenian.” He bit
off his reply. “Follow me, old man.” “Where?” “Don't ask questions.” A strong hand grasped
his again. “Crawl.” He did as Mynx ordered. He was in a tunnel, that much was certain.
Every few moments his back grazed a rock or root overhead. Then suddenly he sensed that
the space had opened up around him. Mynx whispered, “You may be able to get to your feet
now. But be careful.” He could stand upas long as he bent at the waist. But after creeping
along on his hands and knees for so long, half-standing didn't feel half-bad. Mynx hurried
him along the tunnel, which curved every few paces. “Who dug this tunnel?” he muttered. “A
bunch of drunken dwarves?” “Not a bad guess,” Mynx whispered, chuckling. “It was abandoned
when I found it. I cleaned it out and shored it up.” “Where are?” Mynx pulled him forward
and placed his hand on the rung of a ladder. He could tell by the air that they weren't
exactly underground anymore, but where were they? Tarscenian took a deep breath.

“Wood?” His fingers grazed something rough and crumbly. He broke off a piece and sniffed.
“Oak?” he murmured. He stood cautiously and began to climb. The ladder curved to the right
as it led upward. “We're inside a tree?” “Of course. This is Solace, remember?” Mynx
muttered, climbing ahead of him in the dark. “Or near enough.” She had halted and seemed
to be fumbling with something. A moment later a trapdoor swung open before them. Enough
moonlight seeped through a lone curtained window that Tarscenian could make out a chair
with a skirt and shirt flung across the back, a mattress, and a small table with a
lantern, three dirty plates, and a half-dozen tiny ceramic vials strewn on it. The
furniture occupied most of the floor space in the tiny hollowed-out tree-home. Mynx kicked
her sandals off, nudging them under the table. “Sit,” she ordered, removing the clothing
from the chair and dropping it on the floor. “I'll be right back. Don't light the
lantern.” She ducked under a curtain in a second doorway. Tarscenian ignored the proffered
chair and stepped across rough-hewn floorboards littered with pine needles. He peeped
through the curtained window. Mynx's minuscule home perched in the branches of a burr oak.
Thick pines dotted the landscape. Whether he and Mynx were south, north, or east of
Solace, he could not have said. By the Old Gods, I need some rest, he thought. “May I help
you?” Startled, Tarscenian let the curtain drop and faced the lilting new voice. A blond
woman stood in the doorway. She wore chain mail leggings, patched leather armor, and
knee-high boots with steel cladding up the front. A tight helm framed her face; the visor
was up. He saw ashen hair, high cheekbones, dark eyes, full lips. “Excuse me,” he
stammered. “Mynx brought me . . .” He paused. “Rather ...” He stopped again. He realized
he'd rather be facing the bugbear again than be in this situation. “It's not what you ...”
“Mynx?” the woman asked. “Who is Mynx?” She regarded him with a bewildered look. “And what
are you doing in my house?” What trick had Mynx played on him? Obviously she'd abandoned
him, but what was her objective? The blond woman wore warrior's garbwas he being held
prisoner, then? Never trust a thief, he thought. He drew his sword. The woman laughed,
pulling off her helmet. Straight blond hair spilled to her shoulders. “Whoever you are,
I'm glad you're here,” she said merrily. “It's been an age since I've had a man here.” She
ran her fingers through her ashen hair and smiled. That gesture. “Mynx!” Tarscenian
shouted. “May the Old Gods damn you to fourteen kinds of Abyss!” Mynx chuckled. The
chuckle became snorts, then helpless guffaws. She dropped into the chair, eyes streaming
with tears, while the old man raged. “Put your sword away, Tarscenian,” she finally
managed to say between chortles. “You might decapitate me, and what good would I be to you
then?” He regained control with difficulty. “I see now how you maintained such a tight
friendship with a kender,” he snapped. The laughter died away, Tarscenian instantly
regretting his words. But after Mynx wiped away the last tears, she assumed a businesslike
tone. “You're under a death sentence,” she told him. “You need a disguise, and if I'm
going to spend any time with you, so do I. Obviously, this one will do for me, but you
...” She plucked a wooden box from under the table, opening it. Inside Tarscenian found
more vials of the type that littered the table, plus a straight-edge razor, a brush, a
chunk of brown soap, and dozens of items Tarscenian couldn't identify. She stood and
motioned Tarscenian into the chair. His joints cried out as he sat down despite his better
judgment. “What do you propose?” he snapped. “How do you plan to hide a six-foot-tall bald
man with a beard?” She smiled at his mulish tone. “First of all, the beard has to go.”

He tried to jump to his feet, but Mynx's hands were firm on his shoulders. “Never!” he
shouted. “I've had this beard for fifty ...” “Then it's high time for a change. Besides,”
she added with a wicked grin, “where else will we get the hair for your wig? Now sit
still.”

“Pushy as a ... as a bugbear,” he muttered. “You remind me of Ancilla at times.” “Who?”
Tarscenian didn't answer. Mynx shrugged and wet the soap from a dish of water. She rubbed
the brush in it until lather festooned the bristles. Then, brush in one hand, long-handled
razor in the other, she bent over Tarscenian and set to work.

“Leave this place! These trees are sacred!” Halfway between Solace and Erolydon, five
centaurs milled agitatedly around ten burly men wielding axes. The men continued to laugh
and joke as they chopped away at the base of a vallenwood, which shaded them from the
heartless midday sun. “Horse,” one of the men yelled, “if we doesn't cut this tree,
Hederick don't pay us none. An' we got families to feed.” “As do I, humans,” countered one
of the centaurs, the violet-eyed, white one named Phytos. “But thou dost not find me
slaying nature's children to feed my young.” The man waved him away. “Don't you love the
way they talk?” the woodcutter said to a comrade. They shared a derisive laugh and
continued their hacking efforts. “Stop!” Although the centaurs, two females and three
males, held clubs and bows, they did not use them. Shouldering their way into the circle
of woodcutters, they shoved three of the men aside, knocking them off their feet. “These
vallenwoods have flourished here since the days of the Old Gods,” shouted Phytos as the
trio of humans rose slowly to their feet, retrieving their axes. “We warn thee,
wrong-headed humans. Dare not to harm them, lest thou wish to feel our wrath!” “How about
our wrath, horse?” one of the humans cried. All ten, swinging their axes, waded into the
centaurs. Too late the horse-men brought their clubs into play. A male centaur, hit
squarely between the eyes with the dull side of an axehead, collapsed without a sound and
did not rise. One of the two female centaurs had just nocked an arrow and fitted it to her
bow when a woodcutter's axe blade bit into her neck. She went down screaming, blood
spurting, flailing hooves catching a comrade in the leg, arrow wedged uselessly in the
vallenwood's bark. “Retreat!” Phytos called. The centaurs withdrew to the shade of another
vallenwood. The woodcutters did not pursue them, but simply returned to work. “Damned tree
lovers,” one of the men spat out, hewing at the vallenwood with renewed energy. “If the
High Theocrat says we're supposed to chop a tree for his new pavilion, then we does it.
What are we supposed to do?” The wounded female centaur kicked feebly, gave a sobbing cry,
and lay still. “Phytos, please thou let me slay the bastards with arrows,” cried the
remaining female centaur, who from her lilac eyes and silvery hair looked to be a close
relative of the centaur leader. “I can do it easily from here. They have naught but those
axes. It would be quick work.” Phytos shook his head. “Nay, Feelding. The Seekers have
long sought reasons to send their minions against the centaur community. We have harmed
none of Heder-ick's people yet, given them no real reason to badger us. Let things remain
that way for now.” “But they killed two of our own!” Feelding protested.

Phytos closed his eyes, nodded, and bowed his head in mute prayer. After a moment the two
other centaurs followed suit. When they lifted their heads, their angular faces were wet
but resolute. “We will go directly to Heder-ick of the Seekers,” Phytos said. “Perhaps he
does not know what his men do in his name.”

“He knows, all right,” the female centaur said venomously. “And he encourages it.” Phytos
regarded her with sad violet eyes. “Perhaps. But we will not provoke war if we can avoid
it. I would fear to see our small community in the woods take on an entire city of humans.
Feelding, Salomar,” he said, addressing his companions, “I cannot order thee about like
servants. Wilt thou, friends, go with me to this Erolydon to petition the High Theocrat,
or wilt thou wait here or, perhaps, proceed home?” “Go with thee, of course,” both
replied. Phytos and the others turned as one to go. Just then, the axes bit a crucial
portion from the trunk of the vallenwood. The men scattered, shouting. The huge tree
teetered and creaked, and for an instant those on the ground could not tell which way the
behemoth would fall. There was a moment of breathless suspense, then the enormous tree
fellhesitantly at first, then gaining speedtoward the east. Suddenly the clearing that had
been shaded was flooded with the jarring light of noonday. The three centaurs looked on,
faces pained, their lips moving in silent prayer. The ten humans, however, cheered as they
tossed their sweat-drenched handkerchiefs into the air in jubilation. As the trunk of the
vallenwood smashed into the ground, a wailing split the air. The woodcutters ceased their
celebration and stood stunned. “What is it?” the centaur Salomar cried. “The tree, I
believe,” Phytos replied with a frown. “It does not die easily.” At that instant, as men
and centaurs stared, a mist arose from the form of the dying tree. A pale image of the
tree, the fog hovered ghostlike above the vallenwood. The woodcutters dropped their axes
and backed away, fear in their faces. Then a misty figure rose from the vaporous tree,
like a corpse sitting up in a coffin. The men cried out and ran, but the centaurs
continued to stand where they had, bowing their heads. “We honor thee, o specter of the
wood,” Phytos murmured. “We witness thy pain and feel it.” The figure's face was
contorted, its limbs drawn up against its torso as if it were in agony. Suddenly it
reached trembling hands toward the sky, as if to beseech some unseen force. A moan
reverberated through the clearing. Feliton kay ... The wraith faltered, pressed a hand to
its brow, and tried again. I, Calcidon ... Feliton kay... Then the apparition clenched its
fists and slumped forward. Both it and the mist above the fallen vallenwood dissipated.
“Phytos, what was that?” Salomar repeated. Phytos shook his head. “Its face was elven,”
Feelding said softly, “and it wore a robe. A mage? But what was a wizard doing in a ... ?”
She fell silent. The three exchanged uneasy looks before she spoke again. “Friends, I am
newly frightened.” The others said nothing, but all three pivoted on swift hooves, then
broke into a canter. They headed north, toward Erolydon. Kifflewit Burrthistle stood in
the shadows of a vallen-wood, across from the gate of Erolydon, and pondered what to do.
He wasn't exactly in the good graces of the temple guards anymore. He'd led them in a
delightful chase all around Solace for an hour last night before tiring of the game and
losing them with ease. Tarscenian had spoken so feelingly of the Diamond Dragon. Kifflewit
just had to see it. Just one look, he promised himself, and then he would put it back
where he'd found it. Honest. Unless, of course, where he'd found it wasn't handy or safe
anymore. In some cases such an artifact would be safer with someone who would guard it
zealously. Someone like Kifflewit Burrthistle. But how to get into the temple? He was
still musing about the problem and absentmindedly running his fingers through his brown
topknot when three centaurs cantered up to the gate. His brown eyes narrowed. He tipped
his head and pricked up his ears.

“We are here to see Hederick,” Phytos called firmly to the guard. “I am Phytos, chieftain
of the Fyr- Kenti centaurs, and these are my ministers. Thou wilt admit us and announce
our presence to the High Theocrat directly.” The guard didn't move. “Hederick's holding
his witches' court. He's busy. And I never heard of no Fyr-Kenti nothin', anyway.”

“ ”Us our home glade, north of here,“ Feelding put in. ”No one but humans passes through
these gates,“ the guard snapped. ”Temple Erolydon is a holy place.“ ”We have news that
Hederick must hear,“ Salomar added. ”What news could a trio of ponies have for the High
Theocrat of Solace? Although, truly, I could find good use for the female, there.“ The
guard motioned lewdly at Feelding, who, like most centaurs, saw no more point in clothing
her human torso than in donning garments for her horselike body. The centaurs wore only
the wide bands that held their quivers of arrows and leather bags that contained goods
from the Solace markets. The guard gestured at Feelding again and roared with coarse
laughter. Two compatriots, who'd remained by the gate, joined in. Phytos, Salomar, and
Feelding took a quiet step toward the gate at the same instant, slipped arrows in their
bows, and raised their weapons. Mirth dropped from the guards like a cloak. One guard drew
his sword. The two nearer the gate hoisted spears. A crowd of pilgrims waiting near the
gate drew back, blocking Kifflewit Burrthistle's view. The kender crept from his hiding
place behind the tree, slunk unnoticed through the pilgrims, and poked his head around the
voluminous skirts of a traveler. High Priest Dahos had arrived at the gate, Kifflewit saw.
Hederick's lieutenant gestured the centaurs away. ”Heathen creatures!“ he cried. ”You
don't belong here, centaurs. Get back to your forest meadows with your pagan offspring and
your primitive, bestial rites, lest you find yourself on trial for heresy!“ ”We have
important information for the High Theo-crat,“ Phytos said obdurately. ”News he will
require if he hopes to avoid a war.“ The guards laughed, but Dahos gave the centaurs his
attention. The high priest appeared unfazed by gazing directly into a centaur arrow.
”Perhaps His Worship would be interested,“ the brown-robed priest said calculatingly.
”Give me your news, and I will give it to him when he is through passing sentence this
afternoon.“ ”We will present our news in person,“ Phytos said. ”We wish to see him now.
Call High Theocrat Hederick from this court of his.“ Dahos refused. Phytos, Feelding, and
Salomar released their arrows at the same time. They'd gauged their aim to miss the three
guardsbut just barely. Each man leaped aside, swore and clapped a hand to an ear, an arm,
or the side of his neck. They started toward the centaurs. Dahos held them back. He gazed
blandly at the centaurs as though he was unimpressed by their little stunt. Then, to the
guards' disgust, he bowed slightly, said, ”Come with me,“ and strode back through the
gate. He drew an incense-holder from his pocket; incense would cleanse the air, lessen the
sacrilege of allowing nonhu-mans into Erolydon. He stopped once to speak to a yellow-robed
novitiate, who rushed ahead of him to spread the word. Kifflewit saw his chance at that
moment. He darted through the confused crowd and leaped into the leather pouch on Phytos's
back. None too soon, either; the centaur had already launched into movement. The kender
squatted among three thick carafes of wine, as many rounds of milk-white cheese, and a
handful of smooth stones. He searched along the seam of the pack until he found a loose
stitch and used his fingers to widen the seam until he had a passable view of his
surroundings. The hole also admitted some much-needed fresh air; the cheese was of the
fragrant sort. ”Smells like old boots," the kender muttered. He wondered if Phytos would
notice if he jettisoned a couple of cheese rounds, and decided the centaur probably would.

Kifflewit had heard about Erolydon's splendors, of course, but seeing the temple up close
and in person was a different experience. Although he'd viewed all this in his mind's eye
countless times, now he actually saw the blackened vallenwood trunk, which they passed in
the courtyard, and the double wall that allowed spectators to observe the daily
executions. He saw, too, the scratched portal through which the materbill entered.

And then they were inside Erolydon itself. Kifflewit blinked. The tapestries! The jeweled
statues! Precious gems were inlaid into the marble floor. Crystals suspended at the doors
caught the light and fractured it into a dozen colors, and the visitors' movements sent
the prisms whirling. Rainbows darted into every corner. And the colors! The kender's jaw
dropped in amazement, and he gasped taking in a lungful of cheesy air.

Kifflewit stifled a cough, then put his eye back to the hole. More tapestries. They
stretched from floor to ceiling, about the height of four tall men, and each depicted high
points in Seeker history. A muscular-looking god leered at a seductive-looking goddess. A
fearsome goddess beamed fire from her eyes as she pointed an accusing finger at a
quivering soul. An emaciated god stood in a mountain of coins and jewels, valuables
dropping from his outspread fingers. An innocent-looking goddess, deer and wildlife
surrounding her, stared adoringly at the emaciated god and stretched her hand toward the
man's steel coins. “How terrific!” Kifflewit whispered. If Tarscenian was right, the
Diamond Dragon would be even greater a sight than all this. Perhaps he'd take a closer
look at these things on his way out, though. Thick incense from Dahos's holder found its
way into the pack and mingled unpleasantly with the odor of the cheese. That, combined
with the centaur's swaying stride, gave rise to a distinct feeling of queasiness on the
part of the kender. He swallowed and gulped to sip fresh air through the inadequate hole
in the pouch. All he took in was a belt of smoke redolent with gardenias and valley lily.
He cautiously lifted the top of the pack to see if there was any opportunity for escape.
They had passed through double doors and entered a long, tilted hallway, illuminated by
torches set in sconces on the walls, and were picking their way downward. Dahos pointed.
“The Great Chamber is down here. I will send a messenger into the room to request His
Worship's presence.” Kifflewit frowned. He thought about the layout of the temple that
he'd worked out in his head, piecing together stories and scraps of overheard
conversation. “Meet in a hallway?” Phytos snorted. “High Priest, we will be received in
ceremonial fashion, just as human emissaries.” “I'm afraid that won't be possible,” Dahos
said, smiling. Phytos, Feelding, and Salomar pushed past the high priest. Salomar and
Feelding reached for the heavy oak doors at the same time. Dahos was retreating up the
ramp toward the temple's main entrance even as Kifflewit sprang from Phytos's pack. “Stop
them!” the kender shouted into the centaur leader's ear. “That's the door to the
materbill's dungeon! See?” A slamming of the door confirmed that Dahos had run away.
Kifflewit heard a bolt being drawn, then another. The doors were cracked open. A huge
golden paw snaked around the portal and raked Salomar across the torso. As Phytos
backpedaled frantically, fire spewed through the doorway. The flames caught Feelding full
in the face. Both centaurs dropped their clubs and their bows. Phytos, the kender clinging
to his back, lunged toward his wounded friends, his bow ready. “No! Run, Phytos!” Salomar
gasped. “We two are lost. Go back to Fyr-Kenti glade. Tell the others. Prepare for war.”
Phytos hesitated. Another gout of fire belched through the door, downing Feelding and
Salomar. The materbill roared and leaped through. He tore into the two centaurs with claws
and fangs. Phytos whirled and pounded back up the hallway. A short distance from the
double doors, he reared and struck the portal with both forelegs. The centaur pounded at
the door with his club, then whirled and loosed a volley of blows with both hind legs.
Kifflewit fell from Phytos's back. Then the centaur crashed through. He shook off shards
of wood and splinters, then clattered through